Trembling Game
by irishileana
Summary: I’ve heard the Mudbloods talk about their pathetic lives before they found magic, how happy they felt when they discovered they weren’t just freaks—well, so they might think, anyway. Even they’re more fulfilled than I am.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or his little friends or even the ridiculously complicated world he lives in. Those are J.K. Rowling's toys; I'm just borrowing. Lovely Ms. Rowling, please don't sue!

Furthermore, I don't actually own the personalities behind Blaise, Eddie, Daphne, or any other characters I'm stealing from **Daphne Greengrass and the Sixth Year From Hell** (and other stories in the series). Their names belong to Jo, but their characters are most definitely the property of **WhiskeyTangoFoxtrot**. I'm just messing with them and putting them into yet another slightly alternate Harry Potter universe.

On to the story!

* * *

I'm waiting for him to show up, but I don't think he's coming. I tap my foot against the floor, waiting, but there is absolutely no way he's going to come.

Not that I want him to. Right?

The hallway is empty and dark, so the echoes from the tapping seem even louder. I'm not completely certain as to where I picked up this habit, although I think my father might have had something to do with it. Mum had said he was a very impatient man, just like me. When I think about him, though, all I can see are a couple of brown eyes and an overlarge nose.

I'm still waiting, and I don't like to wait. My own tapping is driving me insane, multiplying in the echo, but I can't seem to stop.

"You know, that can annoy some people."

I turn, and there he is, tapping along with me, mimicking my every move.

It's hot.

* * *

If my life were any emptier, it wouldn't even exist. I've heard the Mudbloods talk about their pathetic lives before they found magic, how happy they felt when they discovered they weren't just freaks—well, so they might think, anyway. Even they're more fulfilled than I am.

Maybe that's why I didn't turn away when Daphne first gave that audacious suggestion.

Daphne. A foul mouth, those enrapturing eyes, that cute, heart-shaped backside. She gives me what I want; I give her what she wants. Sometimes money, sometimes protection.

At the moment, she's kneeling in front of me, but things have been different these days. Carmichael is a wonder, and somehow the vicious little orphan doesn't match up anymore—and she doesn't even seem to be trying anymore. She raises an eyebrow, and I'm flooded with apprehension.

"I know."

Bollocks.

"You don't know anything," I mutter, turning her face to look at me. She's beautiful, but I need more.

"I saw you last night, standing in the Charms corridor, tapping your foot like I know you're itching to do right now." Her smile is caustic, and I mentally stamp the impatient urge further down in my brain. "And I saw who you were with. Maybe I just have a little too much _estrogen _to be your type."

I'm not gay!

"I'm not gay, Greengrass!"

"Oh, really? Then just what _were _you and Eddie Carmichael doing together?"

I search my brain for an answer, anything that could make her _shut up._ "We were . . . I was . . . he asked me to . . . to help him sell his merchandise. The fake tools he has to stimulate learning, you know the ones, Baruffio's Brain Elixir and the lot."

"And you had to meet after hours in the dark of night, the way you and I are now?"

My cheeks aren't reddening. I trained in the art of self-control long ago. "I can't be seen with a Ravenclaw like him. I have a reputation to uphold."

"So you tested his _elixirs_ . . . in the dead of night, in the loo on the third floor. I could hear you, you know. _Moaning_ and panting and begging him for more. Which surprised me, you know, because you've never bothered begging me for anything. He must be good.

"I bet it wouldn't be good for your _reputation_ if what you're doing got out there. And your mummy dearest would be heart-broken, wouldn't she?"

"Shut up," I say coolly, hoping she's not close enough to feel my heartbeat. "You don't have any proof. Nobody would just believe the word of the likes of you."

"All I'm saying, Zabini, is that you'd better watch your step. Maybe I don't have proof now, but I will."

I want to curse her, to strike her, anything to make her shut her mouth and forget what she's witnessed. Instead, I pull her lips to mine and prove to her how much I love women. When she's kissing, she can't talk.

* * *

**A/N: **Yes. It's short. And it hasn't been edited and it's surprisingly angsty. Updates on this will be short but swift, because I'm writing for a Writing Marathon on the Muse Bunny and can only write so much at a time. I'm also trying to kill a couple of birds with one stone here by getting in some practice for my Bleddie slash story, which is my birthday present to **funnieduckie**.

Thanks for putting up with me, anyway! You might just like this.

^_^


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Did you know that people originally thought Blaise was a girl and girl!Blaise is a very common thing found in fanfiction? I find this amazing.  
This chapter's about the skeletons in Blaise's closet. I may or may not be taking this literally. ;)

**Warnings:** I forgot to mention these last chapter. Slash, very mild language, and non-graphic sexual scenes. Oh, and abuse, apparently. I'm not used to writing stories that are quite this dark . . . it just sort of happened.

* * *

My mother is a cow. I've heard it numerous times, mostly from people in my own house and often from Gryffindors. I'm not about to deny it. I've had a fair amount of "fathers" in my day, because my dear mother has been married seven times, widowed just as often thanks to "mysterious" causes. She always managed to find herself in the will of men, and I have no doubt that her reign of terror isn't about to end any time soon. The first man was my father. I don't miss him; how do you miss something you've never had? So I don't need your pity, and I certainly don't need Eddie Carmichael.

Betram Aubrey was the fifth husband. He was a very handsome man, a tall figure with dark brown hair and eyes the colour of the ocean at sunrise. My mother's only real complaint about Aubrey was his slightly overlarge head, the result of some schoolyard prank he refused to speak of. It was a bit of a surprise when he died, but by that time I was used to it. I was not involved with his death. I refuse to confirm being at all involved with the deaths of any of my fathers, not even the last one, that blood traitor Arnie Peasegood.

I'll never forget Betram Aubrey. He had a perfectly aligned face, but behind that face was a cold, calculating, hungered mind. He would stop any argument with my mother through a bitingly sarcastic comment. He taught me everything I know.

And yet he can never be forgiven for that night. Mother wasn't home; she had a party of some sort to attend, something about women's rights that she'd complained of for the past three months but would enter with a smiling, perfect face. I can hear her even now: "We have plenty of rights already! If we keep pushing the men, they'll never come back to us, and _then_ where will we be? Opening doors ourselves?"

I came home after school to a silent, darkened house, which I was accustomed to after ten years of living with my flighty mum. Aubrey, I assumed, was late at work. He was a dragon keeper, but he'd confessed that writing was his true passion. He wanted to be a journalist, to expose the truth of the world's evil through satire and vicious words. He never did reach that dream.

I opened the closet door to put my coat away, and there he was. Not in the closet, but just behind it, staring at me with those captivating eyes. "Blaise," he whispered. "I want to show you something."

Whispering wasn't like him. He never spoke loudly, but he was always clear in his quietness. To hear this breathiness took me aback, broke me from the control I was only building at the time. "What—"

I never finished my sentence. His lips found their way against mine.

It was wrong. He was a _man_, for one thing, and my mother's man for that. A man fifteen years my senior (I mentioned, of course, that my mother is a cow). But I couldn't seem to pull away. Those full lips felt so good against mine, pulsing, bruising, impatient. He forced his tongue through my lips, and all I could really think about was how he tasted like sharp mint and how I must taste and _God_, make him do that again and I might actually come to church one of these days, even if your people are all about burning me at stake . . .

Keeping my head in his right hand, he slowly undressed me from the waist down, holding me close. I can't remember much after that.

It should have been so wrong . . . and yet it didn't feel that way. It felt good to be in his arms, feeling him, letting him hold me.

Which is probably why I'm so messed up now.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** I don't think even Foxy went into Blaise's closest friendship. Does he have one? Apparently, you (and I) are about to find out.

* * *

She's vicious, she's cruel, she's thick, and her face sort of resembles a pug's. She's Pansy Parkinson, and she's the only person I've got.

And she isn't shutting up.

"It's not that he won't talk to me, it's just that . . . well, he won't _talk_ to me, you know?"

"Actually," I answer, unable to put up with her anymore. "I'm pretty sure he's just not talking to you at all anymore."

She looks at me and her face crumples, just a bit. Pansy was never as adept at holding her composure. But soon enough, the hurt expression manages to morph into a resilient scowl "What crawled up your butt and died there?"

"Whatever it is, I hope it crawls into your mouth next. Maybe Malfoy's not talking to you, Pansy, because you _never give him the chance!_"

"Oh, Blaise, do you really think that's true?"

I don't actually believe it. It's pretty obvious at this point that Malfoy's gotten tired of Pansy. He's looking for something more, and her squished face just isn't it. Maybe he really _is_ working for the Dark Lord. I sincerely doubt it, of course, but whatever he's up to these days, his little girlfriend obviously can't compare. I'm not trying to protect her by keeping this to myself, of course. I don't need Pansy Parkinson. It's just that telling her that he wants her to shut up (like I do) is beneficial to my cause.

Besides, maybe it is true.

"Yeah," I say. "Shut your mouth for once."

She nods and is miraculously silent for a whopping total of eighteen seconds. Then: "Blaise, do you think I'm pretty?"

I sigh inwardly. Telling her the truth wouldn't be beneficial. If I mentioned how unattractive I find her, she might assume I'm gay or something. "Pansy, your name is the name of flowers that make people fall in love with others at first sight. What does that tell you?"

See, it's not even a lie.

She smiles a toothy grin that doesn't quite smooth out her eyebrows, and I think about the first time I saw that frowning leer.

_It's nearly midnight and the clouds long ago covered the moon—even now, I'm finding myself up in the dead of night. The only light in the common room emanates from the eerie green lamps lining the silken chairs. I keep waking up to a pair of ocean eyes hovering just beyond my vision, and I need to walk._

_There's a girl preventing my progress._

_Maybe if I walk past really, really quickly and slowly, she won't notice. She's crying pretty hard, after all_

_Bollocks. She saw me._

_Wiping her face quickly, she stares with hard eyes. I can see gears working beyond them, a bit slower than with most people, as she tries to come up with an excuse. "I wasn't crying!" she shrieks, so loudly that I'm terrified the entire school will awaken to hear our exchange. I just want to get out of here. "I was just, um, laughing about something, and when I laugh it sounds like I'm crying, but I'm just laughing!"_

_"Shut up," I command. She does obediently—everyone obeys me, save possibly from Malfoy and his pathetic cronies. "I don't care what you're doing. I just want to sit and think."_

_There goes my escape plan. She nods and gestures for me to sit. On the loveseat. Right beside her._

_I choose instead the short wooden chair facing the opposite direction. It would be nice at least to revel in the silence, but she keeps sniffling in surprisingly amplified snorts. I suppose this is just giggling._

_Finally, she speaks again. Apparently, she can't stay quiet for long. "You're, er . . . Blaise Zabini, right?"_

_I pause. "I am."_

_"I'm . . . Pansy Parkinson."_

_I nod, though I'm not sure she can see me. I don't really care._

_"Blaise?"_

_She takes my silence as an answer, which is surprising; I wouldn't have thought she would speak the language of Keeping Quiet._

_"Do you want to be my best friend?"_

_I turn, look at her. I've been trying so hard not to show any emotion, ever, so I hope the candlelight masks my incredulous expression._

_I don't need friendship. But maybe there are benefits. I wouldn't know; the closest person I've been to was Bertram Aubrey, or worse, my _mother.

_So I nod again, and her hurt expression morphs into a toothy grin that doesn't quite smooth out her eyebrows._


	4. Chapter 4

There's an eye looking at me on the other side of the bookshelf.

Why is it that half the Ravenclaws have blue eyes? Practically no one has blue eyes anymore, and yet that entire house seems to be littered with them. Is it some sort of qualification for being brilliant? Are they trying to match their colours or something? Slytherins don't have green eyes. Those are left for that pathetic Potter to bear.

As it is, this could be anyone from that house staring at me, but I know just who it is. I could say that the connection's so powerful, it's obvious, or I could say that I would recognize them anywhere, or perhaps that the intent behind them makes it perfectly clear whose irises I'm delving into with probably no chance of escape. But it's honestly the eyebrows. I stroked those eyebrows two days ago, planted little kisses all along the arch.

All in good fun. I was picturing Ginny Weasley the entire time—not that I could ever love that blood-traitor wench.

I'm practically perfect now with nonverbal spells. A flick of my wand, and the book beside me flies to the shelf—

"Ouch!"

I don't grin. Watching Eddie Carmichael hold a hand to his face is enough satisfaction; my lips don't need to turn in any direction for me to feel happy. It's especially fun to watch as Madam Pince gives him a death glare from behind her desk.

"Point taken," he gasped, stumbling to the seat across from the one I've taken. I raise an eyebrow and marvel at his sculpted ones, so wasted on a boy.

"Need anything, Carmichael?"

Pince is looking _far_ too interested for my comfort. Eddie—Carmichael, that is—opens his fat mouth, but I cast a silent Silencing charm on him. No, the irony is not lost on me.

**Last night was fun.**

I do my best not to stare at him and instead immerse myself in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_. I also happen to have a sheet of paper hidden behind its covers.

_Notes, Carmichael? Are we first-year girls now?_

**If you want to be.**

_Was there something you wanted?_

**Yes, actually. I wanted to talk to you, but obviously this isn't the way to do it.**

_You're saying We Need To Talk?_

**Why, Blaise, I never took you for a funny boy.**

_There's a lot you don't know about me._

**Are you flirting?**

_I don't know how to respond to that._

**You're flirting!**

_I most certainly am not. That would require me to feel emotional attachment and physical attraction to you._

**Right, and you never feel any way about anyone.**

_Basically, yes._

**We should save the dirty talk for face-to-face confrontation—or, of course, face-to . . . well, you know.**

_You disturb me._

**I get that a lot. I do want to talk, though. If you won't do it in the day, meet me tonight. The usual place and time.**

_Fine. Here comes Parkinson. Go now, please._


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** This chapter is dedicated to my cousin Sarah and her new son Mackenzie, neither of whom will ever read it.

To **funnieduckie**: I think I get Blaise pretty well, but I don't understand Eddie in the slightest. You'll have to forgive me for that one. He'll probably have a different character than Foxy's.

The strange eating habits of this chapter are stolen shamelessly from the **From Hell** series by **WhiskeyTangoFoxtrot**. It's not something I wanted to get rid of.

(Haha. Microsoft Word wants to change the above sentence to: **WhiskeyTangoFoxtrot** steals the strange eating habits of this chapter shamelessly from the From Hell series. Yes, Mr. Paperclip, that was exactly what I meant)

* * *

He's tapping his foot again, and his mouth is straight but there's a smile in his toes. The moonlight glances across his sandy blond hair, making it seem like silver and gold water rests upon his head. It's incredibly distracting.

I step towards him, my face mere millimetres away from his, and step on him. He gasps a bit, the short breath seeming to draw me even closer.

I pull away.

"You wanted to talk."

"Yeah, I did." He offers a hand. "Shall we?"

I don't take it, but I follow him to our incredibly "secret" getaway: the third-floor bathroom.

"Greengrass knows about this, Carmichael." I hadn't planned on bringing it up, but if he knows then he can listen for her the way I am. The pipes are being annoyingly loud, however, which makes it very difficult to hear anything that's going on.

I shall call them Pansy.

"You call it 'this'? Why don't you ever call it 'us'?"

"It's not about 'us'. It's not about anything except a good . . ."

"Rub?" Carmichael suggests, and I _almost_ laugh. "Blaise, I want you to know that I'm not in this because you're wicked good at what you do—which isn't to say that you aren't, of course. I'm _not_ into birds, I'm into blokes. More importantly, I'm into you. I think you're hot and mysterious and a puzzle and a whole load of other things. I like you, Blaise."

I'd sort of assumed that this was how he felt. Still, the way he says it, staring directly into my eyes with an emotion I can't quite understand (not that I ever claimed to be the expert on emotions; just overcoming them), isn't something I'm prepared for.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice not being prepared for things.

"I just want a shag, Carmichael."

He's pretty good at holding his composure, too. His eyes just narrow slightly as he calculates something, sees something on me, or in me, or maybe through me.

"Blaise Zabini . . . you are a code and a wall of stone, but I know there's something behind that wall that's just waiting for someone to find it. And I . . ." He pulls me flush against him and tilts my head back. His perfect left eyebrow raises slightly. "I am going to break your code."

So the Aryan panther advances.

He nibbles on my lower lip and slowly melts in my mouth, pushing a familiar tongue between my lips that tastes so different from Bertram Aubrey's, a flavour of strawberries and purple Fizzing Whizzbees. He's soft, and yet he isn't weak, pressing against me, clinging, wanting, needing . . . _me._ One of the things about never needing anyone is that they never need you. Pansy might have, but as tough as Pansy thinks she is, she's weaker than Hermione Granger. Carmichael is just the opposite. He fancies himself a twink, but he's nearly as tricky as I am.

God, this is a good kiss.

I'm trying to picture Ginny Weasley now, just her appearance: Fiery red hair, swift almond eyes, a pert figure lacking no volume.

And yet the more I try, the more those almond eyes change their hue to a dark royal blue, and the thin line of ginger hair above it darkens, changes shape to resemble those of—

Suddenly, I'm kissing them. Who knew that anyone could like _eyebrows_ so much?

_Am I . . ._

_What . . ._

_This doesn't mean anything. It _can't_ mean anything._

He's pulling away, and in one of those rare moments in my life, I let out a small, barely audible whimper. Unfortunately, it's at this point when Pansy (by which I mean the pipes) finally decides to shut up for two seconds. As his lips move away from my neck (when did they get there?), I feel rather than hear his soft laughter, a small breath where lips should be. They felt nice there, come to think of it.

"It looks like a little pebble might have been chipped away, Blaise."

"Don't think anything of it, Carmichael."

He smiles now, with his mouth rather than his feet. "I'll be sure not to."

He lifts his head up and whispers in my ear. "_I'm not that bad, am I? Same time next week._" He kisses the side of my face and turns to the door. "Goodnight, Blaise."

"Goodnight . . . Eddie."

* * *

I tickle the pear, which still seems cruel to me after six years of attending this school. What did the pear ever do to deserve being tickled? I never enjoyed it myself, which is why I have a hands-off-or-they're-off-your-arms policy. I've discussed this with Pansy, but she doesn't seem to understand. I think Eddie—Carmichael, I mean. I should have never called him by his first name. He thinks I'm soft now—would. Then again, it's possible that he might question why I could feel sympathy for a pear in a portrait and not an actual human being.

Which could be a legitimate question.

In any case, I torture the pear in a minor way and the kitchen is opened to me. Most students don't know about the kitchens, but I happen to know for a fact that Potter and his sad little circle have learned of it. He's good friends with the craziest house-elf ever born, Malfoy's former punching bag. Dovey or something like that. It doesn't matter; as soon as the elves know I'm here, Dabbin or whoever he is scarpers. It's possibly the smartest thing I've ever seen a house-elf do.

Greengrass looks up at me from her pudding-like creation. She has a very strange taste in nighttime snacks: Warm milk, bread, sugar, and vanilla all mixed together in one viscous pile of strangeness. But to each his own. The only problem is that when this is her preference, it means she's trying to get to sleep. Which means that she's probably just going to harass me right now. Sometimes, if we're feeling particularly daring, we shoo all of the elves out of their sleeping quarters and have a little "fun" of our own. But alas: No fun for Blaise tonight.

She beams as I sit down and demand that the elves make me a plate of onion rings, which is the first thing that comes to mind. I guess there's two sets of odd taste buds at this table.

"You're late," she declares, still smiling that beatific smile.

"And . . . this makes you happy?"

"It makes me happy because this is our scheduled time, and you're a man with some pretty obvious needs," _I don't _need_ anything. _"and your lips are bruised and swollen."

I can't help it—my hand goes to my lips. Damn, I should have waited a bit before coming here. Eddie—Carmichael, Carmichael—has gotten me off-guard. And it also happens to be one in the morning. Greengrass' grin is really more of a smirk at this point.

"You were with him, weren't you? Eddie Carmichael has _got you_, Zabini. It's brilliant!"

"No one's _got me_, Daph—I mean, Greengrass. Carmichael just does a good job of things, if you know what I mean. And speaking of, you're getting a bit sloppy these days. You may want to work on that, or I could just drop you like a stone."

Oh, God. I just had to use the word _stone._

"Did . . . did you almost call me Daphne?" I bite the back of my lips and imagine teeth marks where my own are pressing. "You _did._ God, that little speech really threw you, didn't it? Carmichael is a genius, an absolute genius."

I don't want to ask it. But this is just not my night. "Speech?"

"That 'I will break your code' thing. He's really starting to break you, isn't he?"

I feel mildly violated. "You were _listening_ to that? Don't you have anything better to do with your life than follow me around all day?"

"Well," she says, spinning her spoon around in the milk. "When you didn't show up, it was pretty obvious where you might be. So I thought I'd ruin your day and eavesdrop a bit."

I glare at her, and then remember why I don't glare at people. "And . . . the other times?"

"I was awake, I noticed you were, too. Can't hurt a girl to have a little more protection. You've got a love bite on your neck, by the way. Might want to find something to cover it up with."

There should be a witty response to that, but I don't have the energy to formulate it. And the onion rings are here. I chew on one mindlessly to wash out the taste that hasn't quite left my mouth. We're quiet for a moment, and then her hand is on mine.

"I think you two are a good couple."

I shake my head and stand, leaving a pile of uneaten fried crumbs on my plate. She goes back to her milk concoction, and no more words are said.

* * *

The letter's open on my lap, the owl's beside me trying to steal some breakfast, but I'm pretty sure it's just a hallucination. The events of last night combined with exhaustion from sleeping approximately two and a half hours have driven me over the edge. Obviously, the lines I'm seeing can't be true. My mother is in her _forties_, for chrissakes.

_Blaise,_

_I'm not entirely sure how to tell you this, or even whether to tell you this, but it would appear that I am to be married again. I met a man a few weeks ago, and he is truly darling. You would love him, honey, I know you would. Now, I know that you think it's a bit soon for me—those were your opinions about Peasegood, after all, and goodness knows you were right. Who knew blood traitors were still allowed to walk our streets? However, it is imperative that we are joined together as soon as possible, because as it would seem . . . well, we haven't a lot of time. You are to tell no one of this, but a Healer friend of mine looked me up and down and told me that I'm expecting._

_Yes! You're going to be a brother! Do not worry yourself, Blaise. There is still plenty of money stored away, even after the wedding. I am looking forward to this joyous event more than anyone else, even my fiancé—his name is Octavius Pepper and he is the most handsome man I have ever laid eyes upon, aside, of course, from you and your father. Yes, he is even more stunning than Bertram Aubrey. Do you remember him? I never quite understood your disillusionment to Aubrey. He was a fine specimen of a man._

_Eventually, of course, it needs to be known that your new sister or brother is to be born, but our plan is to prolong the pregnancy as much as possible, then declare the baby a few months premature. Since I want you to be there, the wedding will be in two months, when your Christmas holidays begin. I cannot express how happy I am to be seeing you again._

_Oh, and if you want to bring a date, I would love to meet her. What about that lovely Daphne Greengrass? She's quite beautiful from your description and from the sounds of it she has quite a mouth and mind. Do let me know._

_How is school? I ran into Narcissa Malfoy yesterday. She didn't look well. I suppose it's just the imprisonment of her husband—thank goodness our lives are far less scandalous! Imagine having your every movement watched by the entire wizarding world! How is her son, Draco?_

_Looking forward to Christmas!_

_Muthoni Zabini_

My nighttime habits have caught up with me. I've finally gone insane.

"You look down." Pansy sits beside me, looking less than cheerful herself. I crumple the letter and push it quickly into my bag. I know perfectly well how I look. My hair is a mess, my eyes are bloodshot, and I'm falling into my cereal. I look hungover. I feel hungover. I just don't get to enjoy the wildly drunk part that precedes being hungover.

"If I look down, why are you here?"

"Misery loves company." I never liked this expression. I would much rather be alone right now.

She hasn't eaten anything, but in an effort to lose weight Pansy has given up breakfast. Not to mention lunch. Oh, and also dinner. It would appear that the only things she does eat are those pastries I know she has stashed under her bed. Instead of busying herself with food, she puts her arms on the table and her head on top of those, groaning miserably. I'm pretty sure what the problem is. Sure enough, it doesn't take long to hear a muffled "Draco sucks," from this end of the table.

I sigh inside myself. "What did he do this time?"

She raises her arms to put her elbows on the table, but her hands still hold up her head. "I mean . . . he really, really sucks. He's _bad_, Blaise."

"Of course he's bad. He thinks he's a Death Eater."

Pansy finally looks at me. Come to think of it, she looks about as exhausted as I am. "You're not getting it, Blaise."

I blink. And then suddenly . . .

"Draco is a bad shag?!"

Fortunately, it's late in the morning and fewer Slytherins are around. A few Ravenclaws titter from the next table, and I can't help but look to see if one of them is Eddie. Carmichael, I mean. In any case, they're all unrecognizable faces.

Who knew I would be the loud one of this conversation? Pansy gives me a completely ineffective death stare. "If that gets out, he'll kill me."

I take a sip of my milk. "No doubt. When did this happen?"

"Just last night," she whispers (well, speaks hoarsely). "We went to that room that we busted last year, the one where that . . . _Army_ of _Potter's_ was meeting all the time. That room can change into anything. So it was red and there were roses and a big canopy bed and a heart-shaped mirror on the ceiling, and I knew it was doing what I wanted because Draco never was one for the heart-shaped mirror sort of thing. But he brought a bottle of Firewhiskey to share, and that was really sweet, except it made everything all blurry afterwards—but then again, it also made me forget a lot, which is good. It could have been really romantic, but . . ." Her head goes back to her hands. "Let's just say it wasn't."

A depressed Pansy is never a Pansy you want to deal with. "It was probably just the Firewhiskey. That stuff does things to us that you really don't want to hear about. Just know that a free drink will never get you anywhere. And anyway, it was the first time for both of you, right? So of course it would be awkward. It gets better. I mean, when I first slept with—"

"When you _what?_" Pansy's eyes widen, and I mentally smack myself in the forehead. Numerous times. "You shagged someone and _you didn't tell me?_"

I can feel my mouth twitching. Stop that. "It never came up."

"_Who_, you donkey?"

Maybe she's interested because I'm her best friend (apparently), but I think I know the true reason. Pansy and I had tried dating once or twice. It never worked out. Draco might find her attractive, but she's not my type. I'm not actually sure _what_ my type is, come to think of it, though I know a couple of people who're good for a shag any day. Fortunately, I don't think I'm Pansy's type, either. So I should probably tell her the truth.

"Daphne Greengrass," I say icily, and watch as her eyes actually widen. Have you ever seen a girl do that? It always gives you the illusion that you're in a lot of trouble.

"_Greengrass?_ You are aware that she's _pathetic_, right?"

I half-smile. "Yeah, I know, but she needed to be protected from all the people who think so, and I needed her fat mouth. After the first few times, she was a _really_ good shag."

Maybe I'm not being entirely truthful. Yes, there have been a few brilliant times with Greengrass, but for the most part she's just above average. She's just not all that thrilling to me, rude as she may be.

Pansy looks surprised, for some reason. Oh, yes, the part about my lower parts could have shocked her a bit.

"You're still . . . going with her?"

I pause. "Well, yeah."

It's another rare silence for Pansy Parkinson. And then in her hoarse "whisper":

"So what do you do to make it good?"

Am I being asked to describe my sex life to Draco Malfoy's girlfriend?

Apparently so. Feeling a bit uncomfortable but always looking confident, I reply: "You know, I just . . . slip my knee between her legs sometimes and . . . my hands are busy. I don't just leave them there, and . . ." I really don't know how to explain this to her. But she's smiling, which means that I don't have to listen to her whining anymore.

"It sounds fun. You sound really fun, Blaise."

I've never considered myself a fun person, so this is actually a bit of a surprise to hear. But I suppose I am having some fun, as crazy as it seems. The thing is, I don't think Daphne is the one making it fun for me. With her, really, it feels like a chore.

Pansy's looking at me strangely.

* * *

This isn't the first time my mother's been pregnant—after me, of course. I can still smell the baby lotion.

_There are diapers on the counter, on the desk, and I think I even found one in my bed last night. Bertram Aubrey has just mysteriously disappeared, and I know he's not coming back. I'm the man of the house now, and I'm going to have to help her take care of this stupid unborn child._

_She's away at the doctor's now, and I'm staring at the diapers like they're going to bite my face off if I look away. Who could ever fit in them? My little brother is tiny in my mother's womb, and she says that's supposed to fill me with wonder. I've never seen her so happy. Am I not good enough? Why does she need another boy?_

_Beside one diaper is a bottle of baby lotion. It's supposed to keep your hands smooth._

_I can't stand it. I pick it up and pour it down the sink, watch as the amber oil flows into the drain. I keep squeezing the bottle until everything is gone, until it's not there anymore, and then I start throwing away the clean, unused diapers. I try to stuff the baby blanket down the drain as well, but it just soaks itself in the oil. I smash the cradle against the wall and snap the mobile in half._

_And then I sit against the wall and cry._

_Mother finds me. She holds me, and she's crying, too. There's blood on her hands, and she knows she went to the doctor too late._

_I've never had her cry in my arms before. And yet it feels stranger to be sobbing in hers._


	6. Chapter 6

"This is a stupid idea."

I can't help but agree with Malfoy on this one. Two cans and a string?

"We'll be studying today how sound is transferred along a string to let ourselves be heard, much like in the ways of the muggle fellytone."

"Telephone," corrects Dean Thomas. Why exactly is he still in this class.

"Yes. And we can hear these waves from the beyond."

I don't like Divination as a whole, but I think I actually preferred it with the horse—all right, centaur—teaching. It's official: Trelawney is a mad old bat.

But the "fellytones" give me an idea.

* * *

One should not fall into trouble for stealing a couple of tin cans and a piece of string.

Unless, of course, that person is part of the Slytherin house. So I kept the fellytone to myself.

Telephone.

Either sounds strange.

Daphne catches up with me just as I'm about to enter the common room. "What's in the bag? Something secret?"

I blink. How does she possibly know? "What are you talking about? I'm not hiding anything."

"You're clattering around like the girl at the orphanage who had this obsession with Slinkies," she says, answering my unasked question but inspiring another. "They're . . . a muggle thing."

"Ah."

"So what is it? You've been covering that bag all day."

"You have no life, Greengrass."

"What is it?"

This girl makes me want to sigh every three seconds I'm around her. It's exhausting. Still, I pull out the invention. Not surprisingly, she seems perplexed. "A can-and-string telephone? Aren't you all about ignoring the muggles completely?"

"I'm going to shrink it and see if I can enchant it to carry messages for me with a few amplification charms, and definitely a Protean."

She seems impressed. "You might just create the first ever wizard telephone. Who gets the other side?"

I look away, which satisfies her well enough.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** My Daphne isn't a whole lot like Foxy's either. What can I say? She's not allowed to swear.

* * *

I know what needs to be done. When my mother suggests something, it's really an order. She needs proof that I've found an attractive, intimidating, and, in particular, wealthy _girl_ so that she doesn't feel like she's failed me. It doesn't matter if I'm actually in a healthy relationship. I just need to uphold the appearance of one.

So before we enter the common room together, I ask her to meet me tonight in the kitchens. I shouldn't have another late night in a row, but today is Saturday, so I'm sure my internal clock will get over it.

Still, sleep deprivation makes it nearly impossible for me to stand, and I feel like I'm going to vomit with every move. And if last night is evident of anything, lack of sleep makes me weak. _Vulnerable_, even.

Daphne's sitting in the same place at the table, with the same food in front of her and probably the same bowl and spoon as well. Looks like she's having sleep troubles again. I probably wouldn't if I wasn't forcing them on myself.

"Wotcher, Zabini," she says, offering a second bowl to me which I curtly refuse. "You'd like it if you would give it the chance."

The last time someone said that to make, he was cornering me in the third-floor bathroom and putting a whole new spin on the phrase 'whole new spin.' "I'm sure I would. But I'm close enough to falling asleep as it is."

"Suit yourself." She shrugs, staring at me. "What did you want to see me about? Something tells me you're not in the mood for our usual activities, but you usually complain—to yourself, of course—when I skip the good stuff and go right to the talking. So this must be important. Have you finally realized that you're gay?"

"I'm _not gay, _Greengrass."

"Guess not, then. What is it?"

Wordlessly, I pull the letter from my sack. It's not in good shape, having been hastily stashed in the first place and then undertaking the weight of all of my books and a tin can telephone. But it's still legible.

She reads it and raises a dark eyebrow (a lovely eyebrow, but lacking the appeal found in a . . . slightly lighter variety). "So . . . your mum got herself knocked up and you wanted to talk to _me_ about it?"

I shake my head, which makes the room spin. "No," I begin, although each word brings on another wave of nausea. "Didn't you read it? You're coming, too."

"It says she'd love for me to come. That doesn't mean I'm coming. What if I want to visit my family over Christmas?"

"You don't have one." Which is true, but it doesn't seem to faze her.

"Well, all right, but—"

"Daphne," I spit out, not caring much for or about her astounded expression. "You're coming. She needs you to."

"Do you need me to?"

"It would be beneficial for me. The thing is, Daphne . . . you can't be seen the way you look." Her dark eyes cut to mine as a sharp retort springs to her uncouth mouth. "What I mean is . . . your robes. They're second-hand, and you've only got your school set. You can't go running around my mother in shabby muggle clothes. It'll make her go into labour."

"And what am I supposed to do about that? I haven't any money. Hence the shabby muggle clothes."

"You just have to promise me that you'll wear the ones I'll buy you. We've got a Hogsmeade weekend before we leave, and I can pick some up. Just . . . tell me your measurements."

"I don't know them."

"I'll measure you, then. Some other time."

She ponders this for a few moments, and then looks down at her bread. "No," she decides, and takes a spoonful.

_No?_

"Daphne, it's not going to take anything out of your life! It's just a bit of time with me over break wearing some fancier clothes and talking to a few unpleasant people. I'll pay you as much as you want, buy you anything, give you your protection. Why are you actively setting out to ruin my life?"

I put my head between my knees and will the bile away.

"I'm not going," she says slowly. "because I think you should take Eddie Carmichael. Although seeing you desperate was fun, too."

This would be the part where my head jerks up to look at her in amazement, except I'm afraid that any sudden movements will throw me over the edge. "You _are_ trying to ruin my life, then."

"No. You need to tell her, Zabini."

"Blaise. You have to call me Blaise."

I can't see what she's doing now, but I hear the spoon against the bowl a few times. Then: "What's your mother like?"

Too tired to disclose information, I just tell her, breathing slow, even breaths. "She . . . she doesn't talk much. Well, I mean, she talks _a lot_ . . . but at me, not to me. She never bothers answering a question and she doesn't think about me a whole lot except when considering that I need to uphold the family name. Not that I care much about it. But she's . . . my mother."

Greengrass is quiet, possibly considering this. "I know how you feel. It's the same way with my mother."

"You don't _have_ a mother."

"Oh, that's right." I can hear the smile in the voice, and suddenly I feel a pair of small, cool hands on my shoulders, on my face, raising it to her eye level. "Well, then, I'll just have to feel the same way about yours."

_You'll do it?_

"Fine, I'll do it. I can't push this on you—you haven't admitted you're gay to yourself. Why should you admit it to your mother? Just think about it, Blaise."

"I will."

"Good. Now get to bed before you vomit on the table."


	8. Chapter 8

I pull back my covers. There's a thread lying on the crisp white sheets, and I wonder why I didn't go back to the common room last night. The house elves are peering through the corner, looking abashed.

The thread proves to be one long, thick piece of dark hair. Not mine.

She spent the night. It makes me want to smile.


	9. Chapter 9

Halloween was never my favourite holiday. What magic can be frightening in a world already filled with goblins and ghouls? Wizard children don't usually go out to collect candy, either, unless they live in a muggle neighbourhood and want to have the illusion of being "normal." So it's not much fun for people of my kind.

Still, the Halloween feast never disappoints, and tonight I'm meeting Eddie—Carmichael, that is. It's not really something to look forward to, but it sort of is.

What bothers me, though, is that Carmichael thinks he can "break" me. On other words, he's trying to prove that I'm gay, which isn't going to happen. Unfortunately, he's good at what he does, which could be seen by the ignorant as evidence of homosexuality. It is not.

The moon shines bright and full tonight, and I'm reminded for one disturbing moment of werewolves. There aren't any around to chew on my intestines, but it's still an unappealing thought. Not fearsome, but unappealing.

I tiptoe up the stairs and hit my head on a candle, which has been bewitched to float around the dungeons, casting eerie light on the steps below. The candle, not appreciating the accident, shrieks.

"Watch it, sonny! We luminaries have feelings too, you know! Get to bed!"

Cursing, I pray that Filch is somewhere far away in the castle. I've run into his snitch cat a few times and only narrowly made my escape. It would not be good to be caught now—or ever, really. Halloween, however, only gets Filch in a worse mood, so this is a close call. I hide behind a door until the candle floats away and I can breathe again.

Three floors later, he steps out from behind a tapestry, making me twitch, just a bit. "Nearly got caught tonight. Filch is on a rampage," he explains apologetically. "Shall we, then?"

I follow him into the bathroom, and we close the door. I'm feeling a little jumpy, though, and if his careful shuffle is anything to go by, he feels the same way. He grabs my hand, turns me around, and presses me against the wall . . . and hesitates, his fingers reaching but not touching my face. His breathing is short and laboured without me doing anything, and it's now obvious that he's nervous. For the first time, we're both cognitively aware of the danger of what we're doing.

"Pansy!" I think, and then realize I've said it out loud. Shouted it, actually. For once, Eddie looks completely bewildered.

"You know, if you're trying to convince me you're no gay, you could always just shout out Greengrass' name. Parkinson is a weird development."

"No, no . . ." I shake my head vigorously, as if it could reorganize my thoughts into an actual sentence. "Pansy and Draco . . . and Dumbledore's Army . . . Potter . . ."

"_What?_"

I look into those deep blue eyes, contemplate whether or not I should share this secret with him. Can I trust him?

No. I can't trust anyone.

It's irrelevant, really.

"Come on. I know a place where Filch won't find us."

* * *

"So this is the come and go room."

I've never personally set foot in the room before now, but Pansy told me the theory. The room is comfortable, a bit small, very simple. It's bare, save for a few wall sconces and the black and silver bed in the far left corner. Four drapes surround it, but there is no mirror on the ceiling. Thank God.

Yet the sight of the bed still reddens my cheeks. The dim lighting hides my embarrassment. Carmichael and I have really never gone that far.

He looks around the room appreciatively. "Michael told me about this place—after Marietta got betrayed them, of course—but I guess it was really different when he was in it." He turns, makes eye contact. "I like it. It's clean."

He sits on the bed, then peeks around one of the drapes to wink at me. "Shall we?" he says again.

So I sit beside him, and he takes me in with one perfect kiss. Too romantic, too emotional. Then he shows me a new way of expressing himself.

It's amazing.

Some time later, we lay there, me spooning him the way I did Daphne in the kitchens not so long ago. He rolls over, touching me up and down with just his eyes, and smiles. "I'm gay, Blaise."

"I gathered."

"You are, too."

It's like a bucket of ice water has been dumped all over this bed. "I'm _not._"

"Then why are you here, Blaise? Why are you in bed with a gay man? Greengrass would have you. Parkinson would have you. Any woman would have you, and yet you're here with me. Why is that?"

"Shut up." I clench my teeth, then remember that I don't do that. "Just _shut up._"

"Admit it. It's not wrong, Blaise, it's right. We're supposed to be together. I could be your boyfriend."

"Shut UP!" I bellow, losing control, hitting him across the face. "I'm tired of this, Eddie! I'm NOT GAY, all right? Just GET OVER IT. I DON'T LOVE YOU!"

I keep hitting him, but it's not going away. He's still talking, he's still trying to make me something I'm not. I climb on to of him, push his shoulders down, and keep hitting. Those blue, blue eyes are filled with something I've never seen in them before: Fear.

And then I realize what I've done, and I roll off of him. He is speechless, bleeding, but he isn't crying, and I am. I can't look at him, can't stand to see his face. I pull on my clothes and walk away.

I hate losing control, feeling angry, showing myself. I'm a traitor to my own mind.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **This was slightly inspired by Twelve Long Months by Brian Malloy, but I honestly did have to make someone ponder about a superhero.

* * *

Stupid muggle-esque prompts.

"Sometimes I wish I could be Superman."

I'm seeing Daphne now more than ever, but it hasn't been making me any happier. More often our nights have been filled with me preparing her for meeting my mother, rather than actually getting horizontal. Now it seems we're just talking about anything.

"I have no idea what that means."

She laughs. "He's this bloke in muggle comic books. Has powers, saves the world, can't be touched my kryptonite."

"Ah." I say, trying and failing to understand. ". . . Why's that?"

She takes another spoonful of—yes—bread and warm milk before answering. "Well . . . he's a real man. He actually lives two lives. In one, he's just Clark Kent, the twat who can't get the woman he loves because she's married to someone else. But in the other, he's a hero, a man that woman still wants to be with, and he can do anything he bloody wants to without any fear of the consequences. He could be shagging _you_ in the middle of the mall, and it wouldn't even matter."

Daphne thinks it over some more. "I think it'd be nice not to have to worry about what other people think."

"On the other hand," I point out. "You'd also be a man. And I have to tell you, it's not as easy as you might think. We have these things between our legs that get in the way of walking and whatnot. Two of them hurt like you wouldn't believe if treated the wrong way, and if you want to take a piss you have to actually hold and aim the third. It's a bit of a nuisance."

She looks afraid for a moment, then bursts out laughing, bringing a fist against her bowl and spilling milk everywhere. Quicker than you could say "holy hell," one of the elves makes her way to the table and mops it up.

Daphne, still smiling, pushes her bowl away. "What's happened to you, Blaise? Something's changed."

My good mood dissipates instantly. I look behind her, where the elf is carrying the mop away and another is watching our conversation with mild interest. Seeing my gaze, he looks away apologetically, bows, and minds his own business.

"Never mind. Yeah, Daphne, you're right. It would be nice if people could do want they wanted. So what the bloody hell is kryptonite?"

She's smiling, but she's not. "It's, um . . . this element from his home planet, Krypton."

"Wait a minute. Superman is an alien? You want to be an alien?"

"You're not getting it. He's an alien with _superpowers_."

"You're a witch!"

"Oh, shut up."

"Never."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **How long would it take before I brought in an OC? Ah, well.

* * *

November brings bitter winds, cold ideas, and a new student. It's an unusual case, but a sixth-year from Durmstrang has transferred to Hogwarts so that he can be—and I quote—"M'rn vulvad wit da varz."

I believe this is broken English for "More involved with the war." Of all the people who attend the school and _can_ speak basic English, how did we end up with this man?

Daphne, however, is completely enraptured by him. "You've got some competition, Blaise. Alek makes me warm in all the right places."

I mentally roll my eyes, remaining impassive. "He can't understand a word you say, Daph. The other day, I called him a thick idiot to his face, and he just blinked and thanked me. Besides which, he really needs to pluck."

And yet it seems that Daphne isn't the only one undressing him with his eyes. The next time I see Pansy, she's practically drooling.

"I thought Draco was a real man, but _God_, I've changed my mind. If I can get Alek to look at me, I'm ditching the blonde. Bulgarian boys are _hot._"

"Pansy, you've been in love with Malfoy since third year." What is it about foreign men that makes women climb all over them? "This bloke shouldn't change anything."

"He does, though. Look, even that boy over there is fawning over him. Isn't that the most disgusting thing you've ever seen?"

I follow her gaze and see a blushing Eddie Carmichael refuse to make eye contact with the apparently attractive thick idiot. Something stirs within me, but I clamp it down.

Well, technically, that's what I should do. Instead, I stand up, stare Alek in the eye, and say in my iciest voice, "Get out of here."

If the fool doesn't understand the words, he understands the tone and scarpers.

"_That bloke?_" I hiss when I'm sure that no one's watching. "Come on, Carmichael, you can do better than that."

He flashes me a dazzling smile. "If you're not, he's the only other gay man at Hogwarts."

We haven't spoken since Halloween. There's a bruise on his cheek.

Three days later, the only other gay man at Hogwarts takes the express train back home. Apparently, he didn't have the guts to participate in da varz.

Or in a fight against me.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Guilty pleasures??? GUILTY PLEASURE IS THE PROMPT????? I ALREADY HAVE ENOUGH GUILTY PLEASURES IN THIS STORY!!!!!!

*headdesk*

* * *

"You like this stuff. Admit it."

She's right. I really can't lie about this one: Daphne's warm milk concoction is delicious.

"Fine. You win. But it still doesn't beat Honeyduke's chocolate."

She raises an eyebrow. "You know, the more I talk to you, the less you seem like Blaise Zabini. I would have thought that you are obsessed with some exotic chocolate from some strange place like Africa or Finland."

"Actually, Finnish chocolate is delicious. But Honeyduke's is my guilty pleasure. In fact, is there any here?"

An elf, the same one who cleaned up after Daphne when I explained to her the trials of being a man, curtsies, runs away, and returns in a wink with a plate of assorted chocolates. It makes my day.

As the conversation continues, the chocolates disappear as though they've been shrouded by an invisibility cloak. Daphne takes the last one, and somehow catches my fleeting expression of disappointment.

"Oh, get over it. There were at least twenty on this plate, and I had three. You've got some on your chin, you know."

Alarmed, I take a napkin to wipe below my mouth, but nothing comes off.

"Kidding," she laughs. "Bothering you is my guilty pleasure."

I ball up the napkin and throw it at her head, marvelling at how relaxed I feel around her. I've never opened up this way to anyone, even Pansy. Perhaps I have changed. Perhaps Eddie did break me.

I'm still not gay.

"Slughorn's having a Christmas party in three weeks."

"Sounds . . . fun."

"Not really. It's just good for my ego." I'm not even kidding. "We're allowed to take someone, so I was wondering if you'd like to come."

She freezes in the middle of licking her fingers (Daphne never was a lady). Slowly removing them from her mouth, she tries to speak. "Like, er . . . you mean . . . like a date? Wouldn't that bruise your reputation?"

"No one's cursed you for weeks. I think Malfoy's too wrapped up in his own things to bother with attacking me, verbally or otherwise. And it could be a way to sort of . . . practice before my mother's wedding."

Another spoonful reaches her full lips, which I know by now means she's thinking it over. Finally: "I'll do it . . . on one condition."

I hate conditions. "What condition?"

"You have to give up Honeyduke's chocolate until after Christmas break."

I cringe. "Do you know how much chocolate my mother gives me on the holidays?"

"That's what makes it fun."

Daphne Greengrass deserves to be burnt at stake. "So you're still trying to ruin my life."

She beams. "Pretty much."

We're both quiet for a time, and then she speaks into the silence. "What happened between you and Eddie Carmichael?"

I stiffen. "What makes you think something happened?"

"Oh, come on, Blaise. We've been meeting nearly every weekend since November. It doesn't take much to get the logistics of it. You lot broke up."

"We weren't exactly 'together' in the first place."

Her eyes are boring holes into my head. I sigh out loud for the first time since I was ten years old. "I don't know what happened, Daph. I just don't get it."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **This kept me up all night. I actually officially have all of this planned out, scene for scene, but the prompts might kill it. Dear, dear.

* * *

I don't go to mythical places with strange women. So, Heaven does exist, because that's where Daphne's brought me. Nowhere else could anyone look so beautiful.

There's no mirror in the house elf living quarters; the help doesn't need to primp. I don't think it really matters; house elves don't wear clothes anyhow. Still, it means that I'm the one telling Daph how she looks.

She's been trying on her new clothes and is now wearing the dress robes we decided she should wear to Slughorn's party in a week. I'd never seen her in dress robes before—she skipped the Yule Ball—and I can't stop staring.

They're deep, deep green, not something that catches the eye on the hanger but I thought might look nice. And they do. They bring out the flush in her cheeks, the contrast of her pale skin against dark hair. She looks positively ruffled, and it's a really lovely look for her.

"OI! BLAISE! How do I look?"

She's really so beautiful. So I do what logic tells me to do and sweep her into my arms, my lips on hers.

It's not until we've started that I realize this is the first time I've ever kissed a girl. We never used to do anything like this back in the days of actually getting horizontal. Her lips are surprisingly soft, softer than the lips of anyone I've kissed, which doesn't seem to suit her personality. They taste like warm milk, bread, vanilla, and sugar. She kisses me back, but it's so gentle it's like kissing a butterfly. And then it's over, and she breathes, makes a noise in the back of her throat. "That was nice."

But when she smiles, her lips point at her jaw, not her ears, and her eyes don't seem to agree.

* * *

The next morning, Pansy and I walk the grounds, regardless of the biting wind that forces itself on unprotected piece of skin like leeches in a pond. She's rambling now, something about Parvati Patil and her "big fat mouth." She and the Patil sisters used to get on (actually, they all have very similar personalities), but when they came to Hogwarts and were sorted into different houses, the bond broke.

Why do Slytherins do this? We alienate ourselves from every other house and don't trust anyone in ours. It's always us, alone, independent. Maybe I can understand the enmity between Slytherin and Gryffindor. That competition dates back centuries. But why should Pansy have to end her friendship with Padma? Why is everything we do based on how others might take it?

I don't know. I'm just trying to make it through the next few paces before we manage to sneak into the Quidditch dressing rooms.

She's not babbling about Parvati anymore. Now we're back to her favourite subject: Why Draco isn't paying attention to her. He's been spending more and more nights and breaks disappearing, and they haven't had a good . . . well, _you know . . ._ in ages. This is a development that I suspected but still never wanted to hear from Pansy's mouth.

Eventually, she trickles off. Usually, Pansy likes to talk about herself. It's what makes our friendship so easy; I don't like to open up, so I can just pretend to listen to her. But now . . .

"Blaise?"

"Mm?"

"Are you still going with Daphne Greengrass?"

I consider it. I suppose last night is probably a way of saying that yes, I am still "going with" Daphne Greengrass, and so I nod.

"Are you in love with her?"

I think about Daphne then, about how she squeals when she thinks something's hilarious and then tries to cover it up with a low-pitched cough. I think about bread and warm milk and forbidden Honkeyduke's chocolate, about her vulgar mouth and how soft her lips felt against mine. I think about a long, dark thread on crisp white sheets and lovely, if imperfect, eyebrows.

It's then that I realize I love her, but I can't remember what colour her eyes are.

"No, Pansy." I look my best friend in the eye. "I'm not in love with Daphne."

She looks like she doesn't know what to do with this information, and I wonder if the next thing I'm going to say will break her heart. I hope not.

"I'm not in love with Daphne because I'm not in love with any woman. I'm gay, Pansy."

And so she leaves me disgustedly, and then I'm completely alone in a tiny, barely used room. And I feel completely alone everywhere else, too.

* * *

_I'm running through a wooded area—the Forbidden Forest? There's no trail and I trip over roots and brambles, but I know that if I slow down, I'll be caught by the something behind me. I can see the shadow now, and I've got to escape._

_I see Daphne, then, trapped in the mud just close enough to be in sight, and I know that if I don't pull her out she'll die. Do I run away from the monster or try to save her?_

_I run to her, offer my hand. But she smiles a polite smile that doesn't quite match her eyes, and pulls herself out with ease. Disappears with a wave and a wink. And now I'm trapped, and I can't escape. I ask Pansy to be here with me and hold my head up when I die so that I won't disappear into the mud._

_She won't look at me and runs in the opposite direction._

_So I struggle, but the more I struggle I sink, and I can't turn around to see who my attacker is. But the shadow gets shorter and shorter, and then I can't breathe. The monster twists me around, and I hear rather than feel my spine break in half._

_And those eyes are so blue, those eyebrows so perfect._

I wake up in a pile of crumpled bedding and tears.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: **Zenny's latest prompt is weird, but reasonable. Let's DO IT!

Three lines used from Linkin Park's "Numb" (don't blame me!):

_Don't know what you're expecting of me _AND

_I'm tired of being what you want me to be _AND

_Cause everything that you thought I would be  
Has fallen apart right in front of you_

* * *

I bring the razor blade to my neck, but it's not worth it. Besides, I've heard that some women—and men—like the sexily unshaven look. And it's just another party for the Slug Club.

I meet her in the common room, and we attract a fair amount of comments, catcalls, and sneers. I'm losing sight of why I cared so much about the thoughts of the Slytherin house, and instead hold my arm up at a right angle from my body. "Shall we?"

I wonder where I picked that up.

She simply smiles softly, punches my arm, and motions for us to leave, which I do gratefully. As we head to Slughorn's office, she asks me about the party.

"What do you think Mr. Nibbles will be like?"

"_Mr. Nibbles?_"

"You know. Sanguini, the—"

"Did someone call?"

We freeze in a comical, identical way, and it's then that we notice a tall, pale man with dark circles under uninterested eyes. "N-no," Daphne stutters, which is the most amazing thing I've ever seen her do. "S-sorry."

He merely grins, showing off two shiny white, pointed teeth.

Oh, right, Sanguini the vampire. Now this is a foreigner I can imagine being attracted to. Daphne just seems speechless. As we push into the stuffy circus tent, she fans herself with a thin-fingered hand. "Did you see the _face _on that man?"

"I'd wager a guess that I did."

Before long, we are assaulted by a fairly tipsy Slughorn. His red, swollen face gives him the look of a mosquito that has just taken blood. "Blaise, m'boy! Been waiting for you to show up! And you must be the wicked Daphne Grinchgrass I've heard so much about!"

Dumbfounded, she shakes his hand, mouthing something to me. _You told him about me?_

Of course not. I told him about Daphne Grinchgrass.

Once we're released from Slughorn's clutches, we're not completely certain what to do with ourselves. I've never actually made friends with the people of the Slug Club—I'm a Slytherin, and we like to alienate ourselves. I notice a bushy-haired beauty talking to the "Chosen One" in thick round glasses, so I immediately steer Daphne in the exact opposite direction. We find ourselves in the midst of several old men smoking cigars and playing poker for a few sickles, a jar of peanut butter, and a rubber duck.

"So this is what I should do while I'm at your mum's?" Daphne shouts over the surprisingly amplified mandolin music. "Stand around and look pretty?"

"That's about the gist of it," I admit. I don't tell her that I would rather it be Eddie, not her, to come to my mother's wedding. It's too late, anyhow, and this being gay thing is still new to me.

In the corner, Luna Lovegood—a mystery if I ever knew one—is listening to Trelawney's opinions on what seems to be something called the Rottfang Conspiracy. The old bat seems to have strayed from the subject, however, and is now ranting wildly on why Firenze the centaur should not be allowed to teach Divination.

God, there's nowhere to _breathe _in this place.

There's mistletoe on the ceiling, though, and it beckons to me, but there's only one person I want to share that with, and he's not here. Daphne's avoiding that spot, too, and I'm nearly positive that she knows about me. I don't know why I haven't told her yet, but the words haven't come out and they might stay in for a while. Still, I'll bet she knows something about me. She always seemed to know everything that was buried deep in the bottom of my gut, next to the Honeyduke's chocolate and swallowed tears.

There's nowhere else to go. A house elf rushes by with a large silver platter of food, and we are pushed directly underneath the mistletoe. I can't stand the air in the room, and under the excuse of going to the bathroom I leave her there, alone, lovely, and a princess in her own right.

It's a coincidence, really.

It's also a coincidence that when I push out the doors, I don't consciously think about where I'm going and just let my feet take me through the castle. It's a coincidence when I travel up the flights of stairs and end up in the third floor bathroom. The biggest coincidence of all is when I'm splashing my face with cold water and hear a flush behind me.

And then _he's_ there.

_There are no coincidences._ Didn't someone say that to me once? I remember brown eyes and an overlarge nose. I don't have that nose. My mother gave me hers.

"Eddie."

He doesn't look sad. I don't know why I assumed he would be. But he isn't saying anything, so I just start talking. "I . . . don't know what you're expecting of me. I don't really know what you wanted to achieve, but whatever it was, it worked. I think. Eddie, I can't believe what I did to you. It was a mistake. I was just . . . I was an idiot. I think . . . I think you're beautiful."

Silence.

"Everything that you thought I would be has fallen apart right in front of you. You make me tremble, Eddie. You _broke me._ You know how many people have tried to do that, how long it took them? Daphne worked so hard at trying to make me feel something that I could have sworn she was trying to ruin my life. Maybe she was, at first, but eventually she was helping. You were helping."

I've been an idiot, but worse yet all I can think of right now is Pansy, the look on her face when I told her what I've been trying to repress for years. I think of my mother, who always loved handsome man, and how wrong it should have felt when one of those handsome men held me. Is this wrong? _No. I'm tired of being what you want me to be._

"Ever since that night, Eddie, I've changed. I found someone to open up to, someone to listen to, and I realized the truth about me. And I told someone, and it hurt me. But . . . it was the truth. And it was better than just living a lie all the time, a lie that keeps you from feeling anything, a lie that holds you and forces you into this stiff little world where emotions are nothing and money is everything, but if that's true then there's nothing to look forward to, because money is always money. Emotions change."

"Eddie . . ."

"Eddie . . ."

Silence.

Sometimes, I wish I could be Superman. I wish I could make him look at me, speak to me, hold me. Kiss me. "I'm gay, Eddie."

It's the only thing I can say that I thing will convince him that he's broken me. So Eddie Carmichael washes his hands, holds my face so that water drips from my cheeks. And he kisses me on the forehead, but there's a pain underneath perfect eyebrows that is so strong, so deep, so powerful and so _obvious_ that it tears deep inside of me and breaks my heart in two. I want to kiss him back, make him realize just what I've discovered. I'm not just gay. I'm a human being, who could never fall in love with even Daphne Greengrass, who should have been perfect for me. I know the reason why. I want to tell him, but I can't.

And then, without drying his hands, Eddie leaves. I just don't understand.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: **Bet you can guess which part of this story was written while watching House.  
Also, NINE checkpoints to go. Silverlit won't be around much today, so there's a chance of me pulling ahead, but I'm two behind.  
We await the Zenmeister

* * *

Daphne smiles at me as we make our way to Slughorn's office in order to Floo our way to my mother's house, but it's a concerned smile. I don't even bother pretending that I'm happy, and I know perfectly well that my hair is a mess, I still haven't shaven, and my eyes are completely bloodshot. It's difficult.

When we arrive in the office, though (which has been tidied up and seems a great deal smaller now), Slughorn is waiting for us. "Mr. Zabini!" he says boisterously. "Ms. Greenweed! There's been a change of plans in your arrangements. Your mother just sent an owl; she wants you to meet her in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic instead. Doesn't want you to be alone at home, and that's where she'll be! Floo over to the Leaky Cauldron and go through the visitor's entrance—I daresay you know where it is?"

I nod, and Daphne just stands politely. It's surprisingly that my mother cares enough to want to meet us instead of us being alone at home . . . unless of course, there's something unpleasant there that she wants to hide, or perhaps she doesn't trust me with Daphne. I cringe to think of how she might view my "experiments" at school.

Fifteen minutes later, Daphne and I crowd ourselves into the small, broken muggle phone booth. It's a tight fit, but Daphne seems absolutely fascinated. "I'm still surprised at the way wizards do things. We can be a lot like muggles, sometimes."

"How so?"

"This is just like a lift."

"There's an actual lift inside."

"Really? Who would have guessed?"

I roll my eyes, try to grin, and then the doors open and we are announced into the Atrium. Mum's already there.

"Blaise! You're here!" She hugs me loosely but looks like she would swing me around over her head if she wasn't in her present condition.

Perhaps I'm not the only one who's changed since we last saw each other.

* * *

"So . . . do you work at the ministry, Mr. Pepper?"

"Octavius, little miss, or Flame if you want to. That's what Blaise's mum calls me, isn't it, babe?"

"Only because that's what you told me to call you when we first met."

"Where did that come from?"

"Well, little miss, I work as a dragon trainer, and the ones I handle are a right vicious sort. I think it helps to fight fire with fire, right? The dragons and me get into loads of trouble, but it's all in good fun."

"Oh, of course. It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye."

"Ah, your mum's just a bit worried that I'm gonna go off and get myself hurt. But don't you worry, I've got loads of training to back me up!"

Daphne nudges me in the backseat of the Ministry car—my mother isn't supposed to apparate or Floo anywhere in her current condition. "You're a bit quiet, Blaise. What's on your mind?"

Honestly? I'm thinking about how my mother is apparently obsessed with dragon keepers. I'm starting to wonder if it's a fetish. Really, though, I'm trying to understand why she had to choose an Australian.

I need sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N:** I'm not British or Australian.

Just apologizing now.

* * *

The chandeliers glimmer overhead, floating like the candles at Hogwarts' Halloween, their lights reflecting on the dark blue walls, which I'm trying not to look at. The colour is too familiar, and being surrounded by it is making me feel incredibly claustrophobic. Along with Flame's accent.

Actually, I'm surprised at my mother's choice of men in this case. She was always more enraptured by the silent, calculating type, or so I've always assumed—I can only remember back to the third husband, eyes and nose of my father aside. Still, Octavius Pepper is without a doubt one of the most attractive men I've ever seen, and he seems to have his own amount of wealth to keep him steady without Muthoni Zabini's help. And he does have his own charm, if large and loud is your type. I prefer . . . small and loud.

So far, we've discussed everything from the weather to the date of the wedding. ("New Years Eve," he says brightly. "So our first kiss will start the next year.")

He excuses himself. "Thought I could hold it in, but it looks like I'm going to have to go to the little boy's room before the drinks get here. Cheers!"

As soon as he's gone, my mother turns to us, eyes sparkling in a way I've never seen. "So? What do you think?"

In my silence, Daphne supplies an answer. "He's very handsome, Ms. Zabini."

"Oh, call me Mutty, love," she says with a wave of her hand that is particularly Flame-like. _Love? Mutty?_ "But Blaise, darling, do you like him?"

This is the moment where I tell her how I feel about Flame, how much his hand motions bother me, how his voice rings through my ears like the clap of thunder beside a nearby lightning strike. I tell her what I think about large men with accents, that she needs to get herself together and forget about men. She can still give up the baby; it's not too late. I should be _enough_ for her. _She doesn't need a new family._

"He's great, Mum."

She beams, maybe not because I've approved her husband. Maybe because I've called her Mum, not Mother.

She's my Mum, and she should know the truth.

"Mum, there's something you should know."

Daphne puts her hand on mine. "Do you want me to give you two some privacy?"

"No . . . I think you know already. Mum," I begin, staring her in her beautiful, hopeful eyes. "I'm gay."

The waiter behind her crashes into the table, nearly turning it over and spilling his tray of drinks everywhere. In fear, I push myself from my seat (actually overturning the table this time) grab Daphne around the waist and pull her toward me so that her dark green robes remain meticulous. She wraps her arms around my chest as though it's the only thing holding her up from a steep, rocky cliff.

I fully expect my mother to curse the stuttering waiter into oblivion, but instead she just smiles graciously, siphons red wine from her pale yellow dress, and shakes her head, tells him not to worry about it. Wide-eyed, he looks at me once more before scarpering off to find a mop—he's not old enough to summon them on his own. I think perhaps he heard my confession.

There's glass all over, but we ignore it, brush off our seats, which Mum dries. Restoring the table to an upright position, we resume our places.

Mum isn't speaking, so I fill in the blanks for her. "There's a boy at school . . . his name's Eddie Carmichael. He's a Ravenclaw, and I'm sorry, Mum, but . . . Daphne's just posing as my girlfriend because . . . well, she's a really good friend." I give Daph a look that I hope conveys my gratitude, and she smiles weakly back. "I'm really, really sorry."

I can't think of anything else to say, and apparently Daphne can't either, because she pulls back her chair. "Bathroom," she explains hastily.

"Mum?"

"Is he handsome?"

Confused, I start to sputter. "F-Flame? I thought we were on my thing."

"Eddie, you twit!" She doesn't smile, but there's something telling in her eyes. "Is he handsome?"

Thinking about it makes me shiver. "Very."

"Is he rich?"

"He can support himself well enough."

"Well, then I don't see what you're apologizing for." Amazed, I notice the half-smile creeping to her lips. "Because Blaise, dear, I'm dreadfully sorry, but your little Daphne character isn't pulling it off. I have a feeling I would have heard of her family if she had any amount of money." I open my mouth, but there really isn't anything to say. "Besides," she adds, smiling fully now. "Now you can come with us to my bachelorette party. It would be terribly awkward for Daphne if you weren't there."

"Mum!"

"What the bloody hell happened here?"

Octavius—sorry, _Flame_ is here.

"Some waiter had an embolism when he heard me tell Mum that I'm gay." I explain simply. Now it's her turn to be surprised. I suppose it is unexpected for me to suddenly be telling people my sexual status after hiding it for sixteen years, but there you have it, and there it is.

"Really? Well, good for you. Do what you wanna do, love who you wanna love, right?"

I knew he'd understand. Still, his way of phrasing things brings blood to my face, and I look down.

It's now that Daphne returns, just when the babbling waiter does with an overage friend and takes our order.

* * *

The lights in the muggle club are clearly determined to give me a seizure, but Mum seems to be enjoying every minute of it. I marvel at how much she's changed in just a few months as she steps toward a god of a man and pushes a five pound note under his shiny red bikini bottoms, her martini (virgin, of course) sloshing onto the stage while she's at it. I can appreciate his good looks, but they're just making me more and more depressed. The beers at the bar—Mum forged some muggle IDs for Daph and I in order to be able to get _into _this club, so I don't see why I can't use it to buy myself a few drinks—don't seem to be helping, although they do make the world a bit fuzzy. I'm pretty sure Daphne's over there, and the sadder I am, the happier she seems to be becoming. She's shouting at the man in the red bottoms even now.

"What _happened _to you when I was away?" I ask the woman now receiving a lap dance from a man who introduces himself as Blowtorch (am I seeing a pattern here?).

"What do you mean, honey?" she asks between shouts of encouragement to the man now seductively removing a scarf.

"For your last weddings you've had classy bridal showers, and before I left you would have throttled me if I told you I was gay. What changed?"

Blowtorch steps away from my mother and rejoins his attractive companions on the stage. Mum stays seated, her face flushed and delighted, so I sit beside her.

"When you're going to have a baby, love, things are different." She pulls her hair away from her sticky face as she talks. "You remember what's good about the world and what really matters, because you know that one day your baby's going to see it, too. Your father passed away, and I forgot."

I will deny now on behalf of my mother that she killed _all_ of her husbands.

She's staring at me now. "Are you ever going to bring up a child, Blaise?"

I consider it, and seeing how happy she is now, the choice is obvious. I'll adopt a baby, maybe a girl, maybe a boy, and I'll raise that child as my own and never, ever let it go. And when the time comes, I'll make sure that my child sees everything that's beautiful about the world.

"How could I possibly not?"

* * *

I've stepped outside for some air—I never could get used to the feel of crowded, stuffy places—and Daphne stumbles through the door. I catch her before she falls flat on her face.

"Blaise? 'Sat you?"

"Yeah, Daph, it's me."

"You're sooo pretty, Blaise. I wishhh you weren't gay."

"Uh huh."

"You're really, really pretty."

And she grabs the back of my head and pulls my mouth to hers.

It's messy and barely meeting my lips at all, but even with all the pressure she's giving me, she continues to have the softest lips I've ever felt.

I've kissed and made love to an irritating little Ravenclaw git . . . and my mother's husband. But _this_ feels wrong.

I push her off of me. "Look at that car over there."

"You're so pretty . . ."

"Look at that car over there."

"What car?"

"Look at that car over there."

Finally, sulking, she looks at the blue car in front of her. I pick up a pebble from the ground. "Look at this rock."

"What rock?"

At some point during our chats, Daphne explained to me that pointing out an object and making a drunk person look at it can make them sober. Slowly, it seems to be taking its effect. She can stand up on her own at least.

But instead, she sits on the front step, head in her hands. Muttering to herself. "Oh, no, oh, no, oh no . . ."

I sit beside her, put her arm around her while she cries.

"I'm sorry, Blaise. It's just . . ."

"It's okay, Daph," I say, lifting her chin like I used to so long ago when I would try to make her stop talking by kissing her. I'd completely forgotten about those times, and I wonder now what made me forget. How could I forget how soft she felt? "I understand. After all . . . I'm really pretty."

Daphne laughs, which makes her subside in a fit of hiccups. "You want Eddie to be your date to the wedding, don't you?"

She always knew what I was thinking. "Yeah. I do."

"So . . . invite him."

I shake my head. "I can't, Daphne. He hates me."

"I don't know what's happened between you two, but I've seen the way he looks at you from his table at breakfast. He doesn't hate you, Blaise. Just send him a letter and see if he writes back."

Lifting my arm from her back, she stands and looks down at me. But I know how hopeless it is. "It's too late to ask anyway. He probably already has plans."

"Nothing could keep him away." She holds out her hand, and I take it, pull myself to my feet. "You want him there. Take him."

All right, she's convinced me. Daphne Greengrass is too smart for her own good. "Fine, fine, I'll do it, but only if you lift my ban on Honeyduke's chocolate."

She laughs again. "It's a deal." I nod.

Daphne is the loveliest, smartest, most beautiful girl I have ever met. I want to hold her when she falls and see her when she triumphs. She was the first person who really understood what I was going through with Eddie and tried not to rush me into admitting what I now know is a part of who I am, who I've always been, and who I always will be. She's always accepted that I'm gay (even when blackmailing me with it), and when I finally said it to her face, she just smiled and supported me, though I know now it was just the thing she never wanted to hear. I told Pansy that I'm not in love with her, but nothing will ever change the face that I love Daphne with all my heart, and if I were straight I would marry her.

"Your mum's probably tired from being seduced by all the hot male strippers. Shall we?"

We do.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: **Blaise didn't create the first Wizarding telephone. Who can guess what the first one looked like?

* * *

"Daphne, have you seen my . . ."

She yawns and with a stretch sits up in her bed. I know I've woken her bursting into the guest room, and I feel guilty for a few seconds. The feeling passes with panic. "Mmmm?"

"Have you seen . . . my telephone?"

She's blank for a few seconds, and then comprehension dawns on her features. "Oh . . . your tin and string thing?"

"I wanted to give it to him when I saw him . . . I've sort of been carrying it around for a while. Have you seen it?"

I hate the look of pity in her eyes. "No . . . no, I haven't seen it at all. Did you go through your entire bag?"

I feel like crying. "Yes."

Suddenly, she looks like she has an idea. She turns away for a second and rummages through the silken bag I bought her to keep her things in. Picking up one article of clothing after another, she shakes it out. It's when she attacks a blue number that two tiny pieces of metal fall out. "You must have accidentally packed them with my things. Blimey, they're small now." She hands them over, and I hug her tightly.

"The smaller, the better. Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

I run out of the room and hear her laughter behind me.

* * *

The next morning is Christmas, and my enthusiasm at the idea of asking Eddie to the wedding has dissipated completely. All I can think of is how I've hurt him. How could he ever forgive me for that? How can I ever forgive myself?

"Oh, Blaise, thank you so much!" Daphne squeals before quickly clearing her throat in a low, mannish way. She's just unwrapped an entire set of books, since she professed to me one night that while she doesn't seem to be at all interested in anything, she has a certain joy for reading books. In the back of the last book I've placed fifty galleons, which she'll find later. It's the only way she'll actually accept them now. I've also included bread, sugar, and vanilla. She'll have to find milk herself.

"Yes, Blaise, this is lovely," Mum declares, lifting her hair so that Flame can fix the pearl necklace around her throat. It's expensive, but now I realize that it's also small, which seems to suit Mum's new personality.

Flame grins, apparently pleased as well. Since I had no idea what he'd be like when I was buying my Christmas gifts, I also bought him a book: _Ways To Treat A Witch After the Honeymoon_.

Personally, I'm just focussing on the extreme amounts of chocolate at my hands. It feels _so_ good to have my ban lifted. Daphne apparently thinks it's funny. She has her own selection of sweets, which she tried to deny from Mum, but in the end was "forced" into three boxes of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, eight chocolate frogs, and eleven pumpkin pasties. The Honeyduke's chocolate, however, is mine and mine alone.

She scoots over to me. "Have you sent the letter out yet?" she whispers.

"No. No, I don't think . . ."

"Don't back out on him, Blaise! You've got to have him here, or you're going to regret it for the rest of your life!"

"You didn't see him, Daph. You don't—"

"I see a damn sight more than you do, Blaise Zabini—"

"What are you two going at it like a pair of agro lions for?"

"Mr. Pepper—"

"Flame, little miss, call me Flame!"

"Flame, then. Blaise wants to invite his boyfriend to your wedding, but they're having a fight right now and he's going to back out of we don't do something about it."

"He wants to bring his boyfriend? That sounds abso-bloody-lutely fantastic! He can be a groomsman!"

I blink. They're putting my . . . "boyfriend" . . . in the wedding party now? Come to think of it, I haven't seen any of Flame's friends or Mum's acquaintances around at all during this vacation. "Don't you have your own groomsmen?"

Mum smiles. "Well, love, we've been meaning to talk to you about that. The thing is, we want this to be a small wedding."

"Unbelievably small."

"Yes, Flame, that's what I was trying to say," she laughs. "What I mean, Blaise, is that it's just going to be . . . us. We want you to be Best Man and Daphne to be Maid of Honour . . . but we wouldn't mind adding your boyfriend to the mix as well."

Why do people keep calling him my boyfriend?

"Blaise, write to him. Tell him to come. And don't disobey a pregnant woman."

With that, I'm trapped.

_Dear_

_My dearest_

_To Whom It May_

_Dear Sir or_

_OI, YOU!_

_Eddie,_

_It's me, Blaise. Maybe you would have guessed that . . . have you been expecting a letter? I don't suppose you were. I've been a right prat and . . ._

_I'm bloody awful at writing. And I'm pretty certain you can actually read the top of this letter, which is embarrassing, to say the least. I just don't know how to say—or write, I guess—any of this to you. I sort of wish it was like the old days, when we'd write notes to each other. I wouldn't have any problem then, or at least I don't think I would. I didn't. I don't know._

_I'm not making any sense._

_I was . . ._

_My mum's getting married on New Year's Eve. I've told her about you . . . well, I've told her about me, and you sort of came up. Obvious why. Of course. She wants you to come to the wedding._

_I do, too._

_Er, and so do Daphne and Flame—Mum's husband, I mean._

_Please come._

_This letter is ridiculous._

_Just . . . tell me if you'll come. Please._

_Fro—_

_L—_

_Sincer—_

_Cord—_

_Blaise_

I roll up the poorly written message, tie it to Mum's barn owl, and before I can rip it back and keep it from moving, it's gone.

In my pocket, the telephone seems to warm slightly.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: **"I don't mind if you don't like my manners. I don't like 'em myself. They're pretty bad. I grieve over 'em on long winter evenings."

That's Humphrey Bogart as Detective Phillip Marlowe in The Big Sleep.

* * *

December 30th. Why hasn't he responded yet?

I can't sleep at all tonight knowing that the wedding is tomorrow and I still haven't gotten a message back. He's not coming, and it's tearing me to pieces.

Even more so than I was.

So I go downstairs, hoping that Daphne's remedy might be able to take me into a place of dreams, where my thoughts can't bother me. Maybe if I fall asleep, I'll never have to wake up again. I'm not so sure that the pain I'm feeling right now is so much better than being a frozen block of ice. I want to go back to who I was before Eddie broke me. I want everything in my life to go back to what it was back in September, when I was a cold-hearted prat and my mother was self-involved and cruel.

Someone else is there.

For a fleeting moment, my heart jumps into the sky as I imagine a pair of deep blue eyes under sloping, inquisitive eyebrows, but nothing's there to keep it in the air as I stumble upon Daphne having a midnight snack. My heart drops and falls fifty feet to the ground, where it splatters and stops beating.

"That's pathetic, you know." She's finishing off her last gulps by tipping the bowl toward her chin. A thin tendril of milk trickles down her face, and she swipes at it with the back of her hand.

"I don't mind if you don't like my manners. I don't like 'em myself. They're pretty bad. I grieve over 'em on long winter evenings."

She thinks it's funny, but I don't get it.

"Come. Sit. Enjoy the sugar. What brings you here on this fine December evening?"

She heats up some milk and prepares my food for me as I slump on the table and try to ignore the feeling of overwhelming dread that's come over me. "I can't sleep."

"Let me guess. Eddie Carmichael?"

I just groan.

"There's still time, Blaise."

I look up. "No, there's really not. Twenty-four hours from now, Mum and her insane Australian airhead are going to be celebrating their everlasting togetherness with a disturbing and overrated first kiss as husband and wife. And he's not going to be here."

"Blaise, he wants to be here. For you." She slides the bowl to me.

"No thanks. I'm not really hungry, now that I think about it."

"Oh, come off it! All right, I can take a hint. I'll get out of here. But you need to rest up. If you're not awake for your mother's wedding, she might just kill you."

She stands up to leave, which is admittedly what I was hoping she would do. But just before she leaves the kitchen, she has some final words:

"He loves you. He'll come through."

* * *

The birds outside my window are driving me insane. I want to reach out and squash them under my foot, but somehow I don't think that would make them stop chirping. And I'm nearly positive that I wouldn't be able to catch them anyway.

Instead, I pull myself out of bed, trying to ignore the ache just behind my eyes and sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, but ignoring them means remembering the fact that Eddie isn't here, that he's not coming, that he didn't even care to write me back or even return my mum's owl. And the physical pain is just easier to deal with.

Coming downstairs, however, gives me plenty of distractions. The whole floor is all over the shop, and between the two women there, there is somehow enough noise to wake an entire herd of deaf hippogriffs. Decorations are everywhere, and yet the actual sources of the noises are nowhere to be found.

Until, of course, I run into Daphne, the way I always seem to. She's looking uncharacteristically bug-eyed.

"Oh, Blaise, thank goodness you're finally awake! It's an absolute mess down here, isn't it? But I don't think we have to worry. Your mum's got good magic up her sleeve, she'll take care of _everything._ I'm really just here to help her get ready, since of course she can't do it herself, but you don't need to stay."

"They're getting married at 11 o'clock tonight. Are we really in that much of a rush?"

"We will _always_ be in a rush. Your mum's lost her Something Blue. Have you seen it?"

"What _is _it?"

"Oh . . . it's just a little blue butterfly charm. She was going to pin it to her dress . . . but we're going mad here without it. _Have you seen it_?"

"Jesus, Daph, I haven't even seen the groom yet. Have you?"

"No, he's gone over to the shed to get ready. He can't see your mum in her dress before the wedding, you know that!"

If she keeps speaking like this, she'll turn into Pansy, and then my entire world will officially be turned upside down.

"Oh, Blaise, honey, _there _you are! I was worried you wouldn't come down at all today! Have you seen a little blue charm for my dress, by any chance?"

I open my mouth to bite back a comment about it only being ten in the morning, but I'm immediately distracted by Mum's dress.

She looks absolutely beautiful. It's a white and gold floor length gown, simple and understated, but somehow more gorgeous than any of the fancy dresses she's worn for so many weddings previous. The pearl necklace is around her neck, I notice with some satisfaction. I remember . . . she's a very beautiful witch.

"Yes, it's nice, isn't it?" Daphne says approvingly. "But it's not complete without that charm. No, Mutty, he hasn't seen it."

"I have to have that charm. What am I going to do?"

"Don't worry, Mutty," Daphne says in the same voice she's been using every time I've been agonizing over Eddie. "We'll find it. Blaise, go help Flame."

Instead of arguing (which wouldn't achieve anything anyway), I obediently make my way over to the shed.

Like everything else in the house, the shed is overly spacious and could easily be converted into stables for a pack of horses to live in. Mum, though, never liked horses. When I knew who she was, anyway.

_We're at someone's house, a ministry man or some other important person, and outside I can see a beautiful black mare peering out from the stables. The big man has gone to get some tea, and we're all alone._

_"Mummy, can I go play with him? He looks really friendly, honestly."_

_"No. They're dirty creatures, horses. They're muggle animals."_

_"Then why does the mister have one?"_

_"He's not like us, child. He's pathetically humble. Never let yourself become like this man, boy. Remember that you're better than him."_

_"I think you're just scared, Mummy."_

_"I most certainly am not. Fear makes you weak, child, just as humility does. And I thought I told you to address me only as Mother?"_

Flame is standing in the corner, adjusting his tie. This room is far more organized than the house, and as far as I can tell he's all right by himself. "Something you wanted, Blaise, my mate?"

"They sent me to help you."

Flame seems to find this incredibly hilarious. "They thought I needed help? I'm all done in here. I'd be over there lending a hand if your little miss wouldn't keep pushing me out the door every time! Looks like they're trying to get you out of the way, too!"

Probably.

"Flame . . . can I ask you something?"

"Anything at all, kid, and it's yours."

"Do you love my mum?"

The way he's looking at me, you'd think I'd asked him if he was the serial killer offing all of my previous fathers. "Do I love her? Blaise, we're getting married!"

"You'd be surprised."

Mum and I were always better off alone. Every so often, she'd become infatuated with a man and his pockets, go on a whirlwind romance involving no real emotion whatsoever, and then come back with plenty of gold left to spare. But she always seemed happier when it was just the two of us.

I'm ten years old again, and I can't understand why I'm not enough for her.

But then, Daphne was never enough for me.

My house looks like it's been hit by a hurricane. I feel about the same way. My mother isn't the same person I thought she always would be, and I know it's an improvement. But I miss the woman I grew up with, the bitter, contemptuous female who only ever wanted money and couldn't even speak to me kindly. I long to be spoken to sharply, partly because I need something familiar back, partly because I know I deserve it. She's changed.

"Oh, I dunno about that, Blaise. Sure, she's a little more relaxed than she used to be, but she's still the same pretty little princess I fell in love with last August."

I hadn't realized I'd said anything out loud. Furthermore, _August_? She was in love before I went back to school?

"No, she still likes her jewellery and good food and fancy restaurants. It's just that she likes a few things more, that's all. Like you, for one."

Pardon?

"She told me that she was sorry about how she treated you. Now, I can see that you're none the worse for it, and personally I think she was a bit hard on herself. But she says she realizes now that she doesn't always show how much she needs you. She needs you loads, Blaise."

Hmmm.

"You're a good kid, mate!" he declares, patting me on the back and knocking the breath out of me. "A real good kid."

Eventually, I'm back in the house (Flame, however, is still in exile). Everything's been cleared up, and it looks like the place I remember. The sink makes me remember of how I've acted, the terrible things I've done. Which reminds me of Eddie, and I know that the sky is dark, the moon is out, and it's nearly time for a wedding. And I just can't help it. I sit on the steps and weep.

A few minutes later, I feel a smooth, small hand on my shoulders, they way I did not so long ago on a different pair of steps in a different place of parties. I know how disappointed she is.

"I really thought he'd come," Daphne whispers.

Then she screams.

"Bloody hell! What kind of a bird do you keep around this house?"

Elliot the owl is tearing at her meticulously arranged hair, pulling her away from me. "Oi! Elliot! D'you mind? We're wallowing here!" I beat at his vicious talons, and then I realize what's tucked in between them.

Leaving Daphne to the bird's devices, I unroll the parchment eagerly, knowing what it's going to tell me. _No, no, no, no, no._

There's only one word on the paper.

_Okay._

And then I turn around to tell Daphne, my mum, Flame, the entire world, and it turns out that I don't have to because he' s standing right in front of me.


	19. Chapter 19

I want to take him, hold him, keep him close before he disappears, because this must be a dream if he's standing in front of me, looking at me with those blue eyes, in matching dress robes. He's not smiling, but I don't care. The only thing that matters is that he's here. And since the things that are important to me never quite seem to pan out, this must be a dream.

Daphne pinches me (always able to read me, that one), and apparently it's not a dream. He's not saying anything, though, and we just stand there looking at each other until he's whisked away from me again. Because it's time for the wedding to start.

We never did have a wedding rehearsal. I'm not entirely sure why, but Flame said it would be more exciting for us to just plan it out and see how it all worked. At first there's some confusion as to who would give Mum away. I want to, but I'm the Best Man. Eventually, Eddie suggests that he "hold my place" until I'm up to the front, and then I can take it and he can move to the side. He suggests this to Mum, not me. We still haven't spoken to each other.

At last, everything is ready. Mum, Daphne and I wait inside the house while Eddie stands outside with Flame . . . and Arki Alderton and Millicent Bagnold. They're the witnesses to the ceremony and technically, they should be Best Man and Maid of Honour, but that's neither here nor there.

Through and open window, we hear a harp (bewitched to play at a certain time) begin to melodiously stroke its own strings. Daphne, smiling nervously, opens the door and is gone with a final swirl of her golden dress robes. She continues to be the loveliest girl I have ever met, and I just wish there was someone who could be even the slightest bit deserving of her.

It's just Mum and me now, counting off the seconds until we're supposed to enter the garden. She looks down at me and kisses me on the head, a gesture that I barely remember from long ago days on falling flat on my face and kisses magically making it better. I know now that sometimes kisses don't do anything but harm. And sometimes they can change your life.

"I'm proud of you, Blaise."

"I'm proud of you too, Mum."

And then the wedding march begins, and we step outside to an Eden lit by moonlight and gently flickering candles.

Lilies, violets, orchids, windflowers, tulips, flowers of all and any kind (pansies, even) surround a raised platform where Flame is waiting with the rest of the company, and yet the only ones that stand out are the dark red roses my mother holds in her hands. I watch Flame and see how his face lights up as he takes Mum in with his eyes. I can see the overwhelming love in them, and I have this inexplicable urge to thank him for it.

We reach the front and I release Mum's arm, watch as she takes Flame's and starts her new life where I'm needed but she finds a few other loves. I take my place in between Eddie and the groom.

With a tiny, almost imperceptible lurch, the platform begins to raise itself as a small, wispy-haired wizard begins the ceremony. "We are gathered here today . . ."

_"Get on the broom, Blaise! Mother isn't going to wait around for you to show a backbone."_

_Cautiously, I mount the hovering broomstick and feel its vibrations beneath me. Following the way I've seen the famous Quidditch players do it, I kick off into the air._

_The broom is unsteady and swerves uncomfortably when I try to turn. Higher and higher I climb, feeling fear well up in my stomach. I hold onto the handle for dear life, and then I look down to see my mother beneath me. She doesn't look pleased._

_My hands slip from the wood, and then I'm falling, falling, falling to the ground until my leg hits the ground with a sickening crunch, and no one is there to catch me._

As the platform raises, it slowly rotates. I don't look down. I can hardly breathe in my own terrified state. The harp continues to play sweet, gentle melodies, and mistakenly I look to it. The flowers have created a long, earthy chain to the ground, but now the distance from their end to my feet just seems longer. I'm starting to see spots, and I realize that I've been holding my breath. Now I'm incredibly unsteady, and I know I'm going to fall, and once again there will be no one to catch me, and I'm going to die like this, confronting my own secret fear, beside the man I wish I could have spent every day of my life with. And he's not even speaking to me.

I need to breathe. But even as I tell myself to take slow, even breaths, I can hear how shaky they are. I try to make eye contact with Daphne, knowing that if she would just look at me I would feel safer. But Mum's veil is large a puffy, and I can't see anything beyond the bride and groom.

Barely through my own consciousness, my left hand inches towards Eddie's right. I hold it tightly, hear him take in a quick, short gasp, and don't care. I know he can hold me up. I know he _will_ hold me up.

As Mum and Flame say their vows, he steps just half an inch closer to me.

As I give Flame his ring, I let go for a short second, and them I'm back, closer than ever before.

And as the couple rings in the New Year with their first kiss as husband and wife, my head is on his shoulder.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: **"Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue."

I know these are usually used in regards to weddings, but you will have to use them outside that context here. Simply incorporate those four things into your next 1500 words.

WHAT??????? I JUST WENT OVER THOSE THINGS!!!!!!

What. The. Buck.

In other news, Silverlit took home the gold! I'm SO happy! Zen's decided to have second and third place, though, so I'm still in the running, and I have to keep my eight-checkpoint lead on Ice.

Wish me luck!

Update: Sorry for the wait. Writer's Block is a bitch (and so are pesky hormones). It means this chapter's going to be a bit rocky, too.

* * *

The first dance ends, and Daphne and I are pushed to the dance floor so that we can join in, myself with my mum, Daphne with Flame. It seems strange to me, but Mum wants it this way, and arguing with a bride—even one who has made it through the ceremony and its preparations—is never a good plan.

I try to remember most of the ballroom dancing I learned as a toddler, but my feet keep slipping, and it makes Mum laugh. She stops for a second and gives me a chance to listen to the music, and then we're back on track.

I clear my throat. "Sorry, er, about that toast. I didn't realize there was going to be a reception afterwards. I thought it was just the wedding."

I slip again, step on her dress, and cringe as I hear a gentle rip and feel the fabric give under my foot. "That, er, didn't happen."

She rolls her eyes, points her wand at her train, and repairs it. We wait a few beats and resume. This is a horrific second dance, in my personal opinion.

"Blaise, I don't care what you say or what you do. I know what you mean, even if you can't show it the way you'd like to. It was a lovely speech, and, contrary to how I know you feel right now, this is a lovely dance."

Mum seems to be taking Legilimency lessons from Daphne. "You used to care. I couldn't do right. I had to challenge myself."

We stop again, but this time it's her guidance bringing the dance to a grinding halt. She holds my face, a gesture so intimate I can't understand it. Not from my own mother. She looks . . . sad.

"That's my biggest regret, Blaise. That you would have to challenge yourself to be loved. I love you no matter how you act, what you say, or who you love."

_Who I . . ._

We're standing there, staring at each other, and I suddenly notice that more people have joined us on the dance floor. The music has changed to something more upbeat and popular by . . . _the Weird Sisters?_ I will never, ever fathom this change in my mother.

"Go find him, Blaise," she says, her hands falling back to her sides. "Don't be late."

_"But I won't be late, Mother. I'm never late."_

_I hate being perfect for her. I can't be her father. I can't support her. I can't even say smart things most of the time. But if I do something right, why does she still act as if I've done something wrong? There's nothing I can do to make her happy._

_"I want you home in twenty minutes. Not a second later, do you understand?"_

_"Yes, Mother." For Christ's sake, woman, I get it._

_As my hand touches the doorknob, it turns, and in walks a man, a man with dark hair and eyes the colour of the ocean at sunrise. He kisses my mother's hand, the left one with the newest wedding ring on it. It's Eric Baddock's ring, but he's traveling now, somewhere south, according to my mother. This sounds familiar._

_The man gives me a curt smile. "This is Blaise," he says simply. It's not a question, and it's not directed towards me._

_"Yes," my mother agrees, practically pushing me out the door. "He was just leaving, though."_

_The door slams shut, but the hinges are noiseless enough for me to hear my mother's hiss. "I told you not to be early. Someone could find out . . ."_

_Don't be early. I've always been told never to be late, but how could one ever be too early? It all seems like too thin a line. Arrive too late, too early, and everything could fall apart. But why does it have to be so fragile? Why do nothing experiences turn out to be life-changing moments?_

I still don't understand the concept of Too Early. With Mum and Aubrey, it was just another point in time that meant nothing and simply changed a little bit of circumstance. It stuck in my mind for no reason except that it was the day I decided to come home fifteen minutes late. Nobody noticed.

Early. Is it too early? No, it's definitely past the too early stages. And I'm terrified that it's already too late.

I turn away to search the crowd, find him, hold him, but soon enough a giggling girl who I think I recognize as a first-year named Ramona or something similar takes hold of my arm and tries to rub up against me to the sound of the drums. Somehow, as Best Man I'm obligated to dance with every woman in this room. The irony isn't lost on me.

Eventually, I push away from the clutching talons of Rita Skeeter (just how did she wriggle her way onto the guest list?) to the unsteady embrace of Daphne. I can tell she's been drinking again, and considering previous events I try to keep at an arm's length away. Thankfully, she seems to oblige.

"So we found the pin," she says, and I nod, not particularly interested. "We just did a summoning charm, isn't that funny? We didn't even think about it before."

"Yeah, that's funny."

"It is funny, isn't it? It's so silly. Brides always obsess about things like that. Something old . . . something new . . . something borrowed . . . and that last one."

"Something blue?"

"Yeah, that's it. If it was real life, no one would think two times about it. Nobody cares about those things in the real world."

_Something old._ My old life. The way I used to feel—or rather, didn't feel at all. The way my mother ignored me, was cold to me, wouldn't start a conversation with me. The way I found myself with Daphne in a closet one night, pressed against her, trying to convince myself of a lie, and then with Eddie in a bathroom the next, telling myself that it was just a way to pass the time, that it didn't mean anything, that Ginny Weasley was attractive and Eddie was just a good shag.

"I mean, everyone likes new things, I guess, but isn't the dress itself new enough? It's all shiny and pretty, and it's not like you bought it a whole lot of years ago in preparation or something. God, that would be sad. Don't you think?"

I think my input might be required here, but I'm not entirely sure. Best to be safe, though . . .

"Er . . . yeah, tragic."

_Something new._ There's been something bothering me over the past few days, a feeling that's been coming over me for some time now. I've never felt this way before, and it's exhilarating, exciting. But it terrifies me, because whenever I try to put a name to it, the same old word keeps coming back to my head, and it's a new word, to me at least, a new and incredibly fragile word. It feels so different, and I don't ever want to say it out loud because I know that I'll break it if I do. Or worse, it'll be true.

"Unless it's some other person's dress, although I hear that's bad luck. It's all bad luck, isn't it? But then, the dress is the Something Borrowed. And couldn't the Something Borrowed be the Something Old? Who borrows new things? Who _lets _people borrow new things? I don't get it."

_Something borrowed._ There's an expression out there called "Borrowed Time." It's when someone or a group of people try to exist in a particular way when they all know that downfall is inevitable. Is that how I've been living? A small part of me knew the truth all those nights. But as truthful as I'm trying to be now, I'm still lying to myself. I can't even think the word, the only word that is worse to me than "gay." It's an inevitable downfall that I've been trying to ignore for months now, because I am. I'm hopelessly and endlessly . . .

"And you know what's blue, Blaise? _You are!_ You look absolutely horrible, you know that? Come on, this is a wedding! You should be happy! And your boyfriend's here, too, so why the wide face? Cheer up, have a drink, just have a _ball_ for once."

_Something blue._ I am "blue," it's for certain. And so are those eyes, hovering just above her shoulder.

"'Night, Daphne."

"Byebye Blaise!"

I have to laugh as I glance back and see her lose control without my support; she fumbles around a bit before Flame saves her. She seems positively delighted to have another round dancing with him, which is articulated by her vomiting beside his shoes instead of on top of them.

The song changes and finally, _finally _I'm in his arms.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: **OMSOMSOMSOMSOMSOMSOMS LAST CHAPTER!!!!!!  
Took me long enough.  
Sorry for the epilogueness. I had to write a certain amount, you know, so that's the way it had to be. But since the contest eventually ended I didn't actually make that word count . . . but who cares? Not me!

Thanks go out to:

J.K. Rowling (Jo) for creating the faces behind the characters, which I shamelessly stole.**  
WhiskeyTangoFoxtrot** (Foxy) for creating the personalities behind the characters, which I shamelessly stole.**  
starry night blue **(Zen) for all the prompts and insanity.**  
Tearlit **(Silverlit) for being the best competitor a girl could ask for—well done! Silver Sisters forever!**  
funnieduckie** (Taylor) for being a butt and yet getting me writing.

Random note: Check out my Livejournal (I'm irish-ileana) and there you can request any ficlet from any fandom, so long as you do the same for ten other people!

Okay, enough stalling. It's time for Illy to write.

* * *

Maybe I wasn't cut out for this, after all.

At first, it's all I can do to keep on my feet. I seem to have lost every aspect of personal grace and dignity tonight, and I've just realized that he's leading. I don't even know how to _follow_. I attempt to orient myself, but I keep stepping on his toes and at one point I slide on a loose pebble.

He chuckles, a calming, low note that I can feel through his hands. It's the first real noise I've heard from his mouth. We don't speak and instead step in endless circles until I balance myself in time with the beat. I look at his face, but he's staring intently somewhere over my shoulder, at something I can't see and for all I know isn't there.

The music takes me away from the silence. It's a soft, slow tune, gentler than anything the Weird Sisters have played tonight. His eyes are closed now, and I think he's listening. I concentrate on my feet again.

"What was he like?"

Startled, I look up from my toes, and this time he _is _looking at me. "Sorry," he says. "That wasn't clear. I meant . . . your real father. Since Pepper obviously isn't it."

"Flame," I correct him automatically. He hasn't smiled once; his eyes haven't twinkled since his arrival. But I think I catch a slight twitch in the corner of his lips. I want to kiss those tremors.

_You gave up that right._

"Of course. But, I mean . . . do you remember him?"

"I don't, no. Just a pair of eyes and a really huge nose. And . . . Mum says he used to tap his foot a lot, like I do. Or . . . did."

_I'm waiting for him to show up, but I don't think he's coming. I tap my foot against the floor, waiting, but there is absolutely no way he's going to come._

Yes, he did. I knew he would. I was terrified to think that he'd come.

_  
Not that I want him to. Right?_

Wrong. When was the last time I tapped my foot like that? I can't remember and watch my toes again. I've become a lot more patient over the past few months. Does that make me less like my father?

The music sounds like something I once knew, like something from a dream.

"There's something else," I realize. "He . . . he used to sing me this lullaby. I don't really remember it, but . . . I sort of do, you know?"

It's a muggle tune. For all of my pureblood crap that I as a Slytherin have to uphold, my father was not only lacking in wizard parents but in actual magical powers. Why is this just coming to me now?

_Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. Life is but . . ._

Life is but what?

I smile to myself. "You make me remember things. How do you do that?"

He doesn't answer, looks again just over my shoulder.

"Pansy isn't speaking to me." I'm grasping for anything that might make him meet my eyes. He rewards me with a surprised glance, a slight raise in his . . . eyebrows . . .

"Any particular reason, or did you finally hit her with a permanent Silencing charm?"

"I told her I was gay."

Another fleeting look along my brow. "She'll come around," he says decisively. "When I first told Michael, he accused me of trying to cop a feel, sat at the other end of our table for three weeks, and started dating Ginny Weasley. And now we're perfectly fine."

"Ginny Weasley," I mutter, amused. "The embodiment of males attempting to prove their masculinity."

"Yeah," he agrees, and I know he's going to give me a real look this time, a smile, something to prove that he really cares about me.

He stares over my shoulder again. I can't help but turn my head to see just what is so interesting. There's nothing there (except a group of tropical parrots that my mother had somehow thought could be considered "fancy"), and no way to maintain eye contact with the impossible Eddie Carmichael. Oh, except actually grabbing his chin and turning it towards mine.

That's not what I'm doing. It's an affectionate gesture.

(Why am I lying to myself? Haven't I learned yet?)

I feel a warmth at my side—his hands? An embrace? But no . . . it's coming from my pocket. We stop dancing for a moment as I search for the source and pull out the tiny tin pieces, my magical telephone, as though I had called them. At this size, they almost seem like promise rings.

"Oh . . ." I chew anxiously on my tongue. "I made these . . . well, enchanted them, anyway . . . er, one of them is for you. It's sort of . . . see, if you talk into one end, I can hear you through the other and . . . well, we could have conversations, you know, without being in the same room . . . it's, um . . . well, it's sort of like this Muggle thing, they call it a . . . a fellytone, I think . . ."

We're not dancing anymore, but in my helplessness my shoes have suddenly become incredibly interesting again. This is _stupid_. We're not together anymore, not after what I did. I can't just expect him to want anything to do with me now.

But to my extreme surprise, he puts his hand over mine (warm, strong; my heart stops beating for a moment) and slides his piece from my grip, puts it in his own pocket. "Thank you," he says, so softly that it's barely a vibration, and offers his hand again. To circle the room uselessly in a dance, a dance that will, eventually, have to end. I don't take that hand.

"Listen," I beg, pushing my gaze into cyan eyes. "Listen. That night . . . I can't believe what I did to you. I don't usually lose control like that, I _never _do. I would never . . . I didn't want to . . . I hurt you. I hurt you because I was angry, and every night I have these nightmares. I do it again and again in my dreams, and you're terrified, and you won't look at me, you avoid my face just like you've been doing all night. But I will _never_ do that again. I can't. I never wanted to hurt you, Eddie, but I was scared, too. I'm so sorry. Merlin, I'm so sorry."

It's been just the two of us in our own secluded world, a place where two people can still feel loneliness, a place where neither of us can be saved. But my voice breaks over these last words and as I fall to his warm, broad chest, I am suddenly aware of the stares we're gathering. I push them away and lie sobbing, grovelling between his shoulders. And then I feel him lean down, gentle lips brushing my left ear.

"At least now I can say I was in an abusive relationship."

I giggle (_giggle_, honestly) and choke on the salty water at the back of my throat. He gestures for me to sit down, but it's easier to pretend that we have our own place here when we're spinning. Hacking and spitting, I somehow manage to stay upright. He wipes my face gently with his hand, which really only smears the mess, but I appreciate the thought. And I'm not done.

"Say you forgive me, Eddie. Please."

"Blaise," he whispers, his voice hoarse and barely audible over the music and talking. "Of course I forgive you."

"Good. Because I love you."

And without giving him a chance to say it back (or, since I'm an idiot, not say it at all), without paying any care to the thousands of people among us or the brine still on my lips or how Flame or Daphne or Mum might feel about it or the flashing lights beneath my eyelids or the parrots screeching "I love you, I love you, I love you," or the smell of camera powder or the scratch of Rita Skeeter's delightedly eager quill searching for gossip, I take hold of his head one more time and pull it toward mine, kiss him like I've never kissed him—or anyone—before.

"I love you too."

* * *

I wish I could say that everything ended happily as it did at Mum's wedding. But the world doesn't stop simply because of the unconditional euphoria pushing through it. Life doesn't suddenly cease once the hero gets the girl (or boy). Nothing is ever so perfect; life is but . . . something.

I am back at Hogwarts, a place of black walls and drafty winters, trying to catch the eye of Pansy Parkinson. She's pushed up against Malfoy's arm as he tries to eat a bowl of cereal. His eyes are distracted and cloudy, but I don't really care. It beats the nasty comments he's been tossing my way ever since the story of Eddie and I came out (no pun intended) in _Witch Weekly _and subsequently made its way around the school. It's so fabulous when your mother happens to be a famous British socialite. Rita Skeeter had a lovely way of putting things that made Daphne's face turn bright red as she let out a long string of violent words, most of them curses. It's strange to say, considering how scared I was about people finding out about my sexuality, but I wasn't really bothered by any of it. Really, people were bound to find out someday. And people make comments. That's just how this world is. We can only hope that eventually, they'll understand.

Months pass, classes get harder, apparition lessons are abundant, and suddenly Eddie and I find ourselves in a new freedom. We're not a secret anymore; we can walk to class with our fingers interlocked and steal kisses in the middle of corridors if we want to and we even spend lunch "dates" with Daphne and her he's-not-my-boyfriend Michael Corner (he's her boyfriend). Of course, this often inspires a lot of our classmates to throw curses our way whenever they can get away with it, and many of the teachers seem blind to it. But it's nearly April now, and in just a few months we'll be free for the summer. We forget sometimes that there's a war going on, that people are dying, that maybe in the summer we won't be able to see each other as often; it wouldn't be safe.

The sun isn't shining all that brightly today. It hasn't shone brightly at all in a number of weeks, so it's not a surprise, really. I'm eating breakfast with Daphne as the post owls flutter about the students with their packages and I'm trying not to laugh as Eddie makes faces at me from the Ravenclaw table. Daph and I are completely isolated from the rest of the Slytherins, but at this point I'm used to it. Thankfully, Daphne doesn't mind all that much, either.

The weather is gloomy and I'm a leper, certainly, but these are everyday occurrences. There's no real reason for today to deliver any horrific news.

There are two owls for our little segregated area today; one for me and one for Daphne. As she unrolls her copy of the Daily Prophet, I examine the letter in my hands. I recognize the purple seal of an eye as my mother's, but the handwriting is much messier than anything I'd ever read by her. Feeling a strange sense of unease in the pit of my stomach, I move to open the seal but am interrupted by a suddenly strong hand on my arm.

"Blaise . . ." Daphne's eyes are wide, fearful. "You need to read this."

My heart begins to pound its way through my chest as I take the newspaper from Daphne's hands.

_Another disappearance occurred last Thursday in London when Octavius Pepper left his home, supposedly to visit some friends at the Ministry of Magic. Foul play is suspected, as Pepper had expressed much against the Death Eater regime. He was recently quoted in this newspaper as an advocate of equality. "I don't care if a person is black or white, man or woman, straight or gay, pureblood or Muggle-born. Everyone is a person, after all, and it's right important for all of us to remember that."_

_Pepper's wife was too distraught to comment._

"Octavius Pepper . . ." I struggle to place the name. "I know him. Who's Octavius Pepper?"

Daphne stares at me. "Blaise . . ." Her voice shakes. "Octavius Pepper . . . he's Flame."

Flame. _Flame._ It hits me then what the letter's about. With trembling fingers, I begin to read my mother's nearly illegible scrawl. I notice that some words are especially hard to make out due to the tears that have dropped onto the page and smudged the ink.

_Blaise_,

_By now you've probably heard about Octavius going missing._

_I've arranged for you to come home next weekend for a _(here the words _memorial service_ appear to be written, but it's hard to tell). _I know you're supposed to be having practice sessions for your Apparition Exam. I hope you won't mind missing it just this once._

_Love,_

_Mum_

* * *

"You'll take care of yourself, then?"

"Blaise, you tosser, I always do." Eddie holds me close. I know he's trying to keep a light heart for my sake, but I can feel him shiver in my arms. Daphne stands politely to the side as Eddie and I embrace.

"Keep an eye on him, Daphne. He's a git and he needs to realize it." I hug her, and I notice that she's stopped sighing after hugging me (that Corner kid must be good for something after all). She looks like she's about ready to cry. I'm starting to realize that Flame's disappearance could be affecting more people than just me.

"Whenever you're ready, Mr. Sabina." Professor Snipe's eyes are cold and empty. Well, not everyone has empathy. I throw some Floor powder into the fireplace and step inside. Then I greet my mother, who falls instantly, sobbing, into my arms.

* * *

The memorial service is dreary, black, and not at all something Flame would have asked for. I think it's pre-emptive, anyway, to have a memorial service for a man who could very well be alive, but something in my mum's face shows that she knows a bit more than the Daily Prophet. I try not to think about it and instead concentrate on welcoming all of Flame's weeping Australian friends, comfort them with expensive tea on useless, expensive china. I've heard that memorial services are supposed to be a celebration of life, but that vibe just isn't around today.

On Monday, Mum packs my bags for me. Wearing a ratty woollen jersey, her cheeks are streaked with the remnants of tears and dark circles have formed under her eyes. I give her a million tight hugs (as tight as possible, anyway, considering she's quite pregnant now) but they don't seem enough. She hasn't eaten a thing since I've been here, and now I'm scared not just for her but also for the baby. I actually want to be a big brother now, although maybe it means being a dad, too. I'm already late for school, but I feel like I haven't been here long enough.

Since everyone else is already in class, Daphne and Eddie are not in Snape's office to greet me when I arrive. Neither is Snape, actually; I suppose he's off terrorizing some poor Defence Against the Dark Arts class. I head to Transfiguration and try not to think about Flame or Mum or my future sibling. Everyone's eyes are on me as I sit down in my seat. I look for Eddie but I can't find him, and immediately my heart starts pounding again. My eyes lock with Daphne's and she mouths at me. _After class._

I spend Transfiguration distracted. All I can think about is Eddie. Where is he? Did he try to meet me in Snape's office and get caught? Is he sick? What's going on?

At the end of class, I toss my notes (basically just random scribbles on a scrap piece of parchment) carelessly into my bag and hurry over to Daphne, hitting someone in the face with my bag in the process. "Where is he?" I ask urgently. She looks down.

"The hospital wing."

* * *

"Bollocks . . . Daphne, you just had to bring him, didn't you? Couldn't you have waited until I was out?"

"He wanted to see you, Eddie. And he has a right to."

I try not to gasp when I see him . . . but it's hard. His face is bruised, his lip split. His beautiful eyebrows are misshapen in the swelling above his eye, and these are just the injuries I can see. Daphne explained it on my way over: He'd been attacked in Hogsmeade while practicing his Apparition, and attacked again later that day, later that night, the next day, the next night. Seeing that I was no longer around to defend Eddie, the Slytherins had used every chance to target Eddie for being a "twink," among other, more vulgar things. They'd not only resorted to wizard warfare but to Muggle fist fighting and weaponry—even scissors—as well. Eddie had been valiant and refused to go to the hospital wing until he collapsed late Sunday evening. It was Daphne who brought him to Madam Pomfrey.

His face reminds me of when I hit him . . . for being who he was. It set another twinge through my heart. "Eddie . . . I'll kill them, I swear I will."

He gives me a smirk that turns quickly into a grimace. "Typical Slytherin. Don't _do_ anything, Blaise. They might never be okay with us. I've accepted that."

"But they _should_ be okay with us. Daphne is. My mum is. Flame is." I don't use _was_ here, because I don't want to believe Flame is gone. "Why can't they just accept us?"

"Why couldn't you?"

I don't feel like answering that, because I know he's right. Instead, I take his head into mine and gently kiss his cracked lips. And even though he's in pain, even though Flame is gone . . . even though we're in the middle of a war and my baby sibling could be in danger and Daphne's still standing there watching . . . once his lips meet mine, everything else slips away and life . . .

_Life is but a dream._

Random note: Check out my Livejournal (I'm irish-ileana) and on there you can request a ficlet in any fandom and any ship, and I will write it for you, providing that you do the same for ten other people!


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